Mr. Marmalade (by Noah Haidle) is a play about children. But it is not a play for children, kindergarten classroom setting and free juice boxes notwithstanding.
Lucy has an imaginary friend, Mr. Marmalade, with whom she plays an
increasingly disturbing game of house- when he can fit her in to his
schedule, that is. Lucy’s world is one of loneliness and loss, and this
is channeled into the neglect, insult and injury she imagines Mr. Marmalade
perpetrating. Mr. Marmalade justifies its seemingly wanton abuse of a
four-year-old when it grounds itself in reality, making us understand
that the imaginary friends are rooted in twisted recreations of scenes
from the world that Lucy has experienced and continues to experience at
the hands of her irresponsible mother and absentee father.
The most important aspect of this production by Outside the March theatre is its site-specific nature; the audience is led back and forth between two sides of a large kindergarten classroom at Holy Family Catholic school. There are all sorts of Easter eggs in the décor, so make sure you read everything on the walls, as there’s no way some of the vocabulary words and pictures are from a Catholic kindergarten! Most of what we see turns out to be relevant to plot or theme, amazing when the place is as busy as an actual kindergarten. The direction by Mitchell Cushman is full of wonderful surprises; actors pop out from where you least expect them to, the action sometimes continues outside. (An actor managed to pop out from right behind me and I had no idea how he got there.) The whole thing is stuffed with wonderful visual treats. Kindergarten things are used to stand in for adult objects in hilarious ways, and the temptation to play is strong (and largely encouraged, if it’s not disruptive). The audience finds new and interesting ways to settle itself as the actors perform scenes around and through it. If you sit down, you may find yourself next to a scene or have to move out of the middle of it. Scenes are introduced via storybook by our guide, Julie Tepperman, who helps us follow the action.
Lucy isn’t the only one having a bad time. When her mother leaves her to wait for the babysitter, the vacant teen’s boyfriend brings his brother, a suicidal toddler. The more experienced beyond their years and disconnected these children are, the less they seem to want to live in a world full of pain and loneliness. For children, historically and throughout literature, the only escape available is the imagination, but even that seems to be out to get them.
This isn’t to say that Mr. Marmalade is a miserable play. It’s funny and adorable; it just happens to be immensely disturbing. The humour comes with the juxtaposition between childhood innocence and the adult world of an imaginary friend who has not only a personal assistant, but a taste for alcohol and drugs. As the encounters get more and more harsh, the giggles give way to a much more difficult time, more so when Lucy’s emotional trauma becomes manifestly clear. We go from being engaged, to becoming more distant when things get truly appalling, to coming back again for the very human ending.
Mr. Marmalade is full of twists and turns, and has an ending much like the end of the last Lord of the Rings movie: there are at least three of them. You find yourself tricked by yet another conclusion. While this can be frustrating, it’s obvious from the message of the play that Lucy needs to free herself from all the trappings of adult life to really heal; she must get rid of all of her layers of playing doctor and house (though not Dr. House) so she can be a kid again.
Amy Keating, as Lucy, and Ishai Buchbinder, as fellow pre-grade-schooler Larry, do some excellent, believable work as small children at varying degrees of precociousness. They never stray into preciousness, but instead capture the amorphous, loose and slightly dangerous feeling of being a child.
Katherine Cullen does triple duty as mother, babysitter and imaginary friend, but does her best work as the bored teen. She manages to completely remove the giveaway light of thought behind her eyes, and is pitch-perfect in distraction and vocal inflection, particularly when she reluctantly pulls out a make-believe game from her past. Philip Riccio as Mr. Marmalade is a perfectly charming psychopath, a proto Patrick Bateman, and Sebastian Heins as his personal assistant Bradley gives us an “adult” we can actually root for, with a mix of damaged and effusive warmth. In a way, Bradley (and in particular his entrances and exits) reminds me very much of Angels In America’s Mr. Lies.
Costumes are particularly effective in accentuating character. Mr. Marmalade’s reformation from black suit to white becomes a white wifebeater – showing that costume colour isn’t everything; the change must come underneath, and it hasn’t. Lucy and Larry wear hilariously oversized “adult” clothes when “house” is played, emphasizing how young they are. Lucy wears too-big high heels and a “little black dress,” but leaves her pink poufy dress poking through; not only does it resemble a cottontail rabbit, but it shows how ill-fitting the role is (as do Larry’s clothes, which keep falling off). It also solves the problem of the dress suddenly revealing the actress as the woman she actually is. Sound design helps, too, by mostly using “instruments” found in a kindergarten classroom.
The room itself is not air-conditioned and is likely to get stifling hot. But, as the juice boxes come out and humour and sadness do a captivating square dance, you’re not likely to mind too much.
-Ilana
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
Fringe 2012 Review: With Love and A Major Organ
With Love and A Major Organ is a play that’s all about imbalance of heart; a romantic comedy with a decidedly large twist. George’s mom Mona (Martha Ross) has a broken heart. To protect him, she changed his heart to paper. Anabel (playwright Julia Lederer) has a wild and full heart. After meeting George (Robin Archer) on the subway she pursues him, day after day. Angry at the lack of response from the paper-hearted love interest, she literally takes her heart out of her chest and sends it to him. When nothing returns, she must look for them both.
First, the great stuff: all the actors are excellent and fully engaged with the material. The show’s greatest strength is its world-building; it creates the sort of magical realism world that is one of the best reasons to go to the theatre. It’s challenging and fun and fascinating. People live with paper hearts, or without hearts at all, with the main side effects being numbness and emotional/brain fog, rather than immediate death. I want to spend time in this world; I want to explore every nook and cranny of it and see what else is different. I want to read a book series set here. The show is very inventive when it focuses on what a heart is, what it does, and who needs one. The show’s other main strength is its humour, and the flights of fancy, lyrical emotions and increasingly glorious similes deliriously delivered by Lederer.
The show’s discussion of communication is very modern, which contrasts nicely with the fairy-tale feel of paper hearts and exchanging organs. Anabel is caught between times; she loves the feeling of carrying a tape player and exchanging tapes, which seems almost as quaint as an actual letter, but she also vlogs, tweets, Facebooks, Foursquares, creates tracking apps, and uses all sorts of social media, which, tellingly, don’t really help her make a connection; only the heart does. I’m not surprised Anabel uses Instagram; her tapes are the hipster aural equivalent of that photo app (they’re a little precious, but they ultimately work).
Meanwhile, Mona uses Google Shrink, which replaces a human psychiatrist with algorithms. She feels more comfortable there, and, judging by audience reaction, it seemed a lot of us wish this actually existed, or are surprised it doesn’t. As much as she tries to hide behind her Internet therapist, all of Google Shrink’s suggestions for her involve getting out into the real world and meeting people, through (initially hilariously unsuccessful) speed dating, and recreational leisure activities. She makes her first real connection through the mention of a book. Anabel, on the other hand, calls the newspaper yet another way to hide from human connection; when she says “the paper,” it has the double meaning of also unconsciously referencing the paper heart inside his chest.
It seems unkind to pick at some inconsistencies or flaws in an exciting piece, but there is some dramaturgy to deal with. First, the quirk is strong with this one. Mostly, it’s welcome, but when there are inconsistencies with the text it sticks out as added quirk for the sake of quirk. For example, there are several references to George’s mother having a hard time accepting his steadfast vegetarianism and devotion to dodgeball. However, if George’s character doesn’t know what he cares about, and is apparently unable to feel emotion, then the dodgeball and vegetarian references actually detract from our understanding. George claims dodgeball is a “release” – from what, if his problem is lack of emotion? His passion for vegetarianism also seems misplaced.
At the beginning of the play, we are treated to what appears to be a typical “meet-cute,” and it is very cute. This scene is adorable, charming and very entertaining, and makes you root for the two crazy kids, but is also confusing in light of what is developed in terms of George’s character. On one hand, it’s important for us to see why Anabel likes George, otherwise her stalker-type behaviour is even harder to understand. But introducing us to a George who seems happy and flirty and fun seems incongruous with a man who has to look up “pleasure” in the dictionary. The subway behaviour that follows this initial interaction backs up the later interpretation of George’s character; it’s just the introduction of his character. The first impression does shape our expectations, for better or worse.
Though Anabel is likable, it’s a little uncomfortable seeing stalker-type behaviour be lauded by the play (particularly in a speech by George’s mother), as what people are “supposed” to feel. Emotions are necessary, yes, and her spirit is wonderful; it’s the actions that are problematic. Think about what the impression would be if the genders were reversed; Anabel’s behaviour would suddenly be creepy and frightening. Getting over the initial reaction, however, it’s important to realize that none of these characters are fully “reliable,” and some of what the show appears to be commenting on is that each one of them has trouble with heart; Anabel has too much heart, George has far too little – a false heart - and Mona has a broken one that doesn’t work correctly. It is up to them to communicate with each other and find a sense of balance; Anabel and George with their new connection, and Mona with her date.
In terms of the progression, some characters’ reversals of heart (or lack thereof) seem quick and unexplained, the rationale building to them somewhat muddled. This is something that could be developed, particularly because Lederer’s characters are so generally good at sharing their thoughts and feelings with us; it’s a matter of connecting the arc and smoothing the transitions.
As the characters have issues connecting with each other, sometimes we do too. The show is very committed to staying firmly in its created world, which is great, but it makes it more difficult for the audience to find an “in.” George’s self-discovery is where we finally start to connect, penetrating the somewhat difficult characters and quirk with emotional truth.
There is a great deal of raw potential in this play; it understands that, even if it’s a little messy, the most important thing about a piece of theatre is its beating heart.
-Ilana
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Fringe 2012 Review: Then He Wakes Up
Then He Wakes Up is a surreal little play with one main idea: the nature and trap of the recurring dream. The play asks: can something change in a this kind of dream dream, and if it does, how can we do it? Can we stop the dream, or its negative events, from happening?
Henry (Jordan Mechano) shows up to wait for the bus, and meets Felix (playwright Matthew Sarookanian, impressively and perfectly awkward), a strange stranger who stands up straight without moving, even to scratch his nose, asks bizarre questions in an attempt to be friends, and seems to know everything about Henry’s life, and what will happen over the course of his day. The one thing that Felix knows is that his involvement in Henry’s day will end with Henry killing him, because it happens every time Felix has this dream.
The play, in its own unique way, has a bit of a Stranger Than Fiction vibe: a character who lives a mundane, boring, routine existence, gradually finds out that he is not the protagonist in his own story; that someone else has created him, is dictating and running his life. Seeing someone’s worldview gradually shatter can make for intriguing theatre. The play is not content just to tell this particular story, but also explores other issues. To add to the mystery, Henry encounters a woman from his past (Perrie Olthuis) and deals with his relationship with the father of his youth (Alex Sims), which alters the tone of the play, as Henry regresses toward childhood. (This is also, perhaps, a sly nod to the common complaint at Fringe that it’s all young theatre students playing older characters; the choice sidesteps it strangely but neatly.)
By the end, there are major questions as to whose dream it is; Felix knows the score and claims the dream, but all of it seems to function under Henry’s psychology (see: the regression) and experiences he must work through. Henry is also the audience’s “in” to the story, the character with whom we most identify, so it’s difficult not to see him as the protagonist. Does this mean that Henry is a part of Felix, through which Felix is working out his own issues, or does that mean that there is more to this dream sequence than meets the eye? What does Henry represent to Felix? Are they in each others’ dreams? Or, is it actually the dream of the final character left on stage? And what happens when he wakes up? The play is stretched a little thin by its end, and so it may bring up more of these questions than it can justify, but they are certainly interesting to think about. Much like a dream, as well, the characters are also thin and a little amorphous; the script is largely focused on developing its main conceit, which is understandable. The piece at the same time feels like it couldn’t be any longer with the ideas it has, and that it could benefit from getting to know the characters better; building a concrete sense of character and worldview makes shattering that sense much more powerful.
Then He Wakes Up is a thoughtful piece that is just different enough to set itself apart from the Fringe pack. It’s worthwhile viewing, though you may want to pinch yourself a couple of times to make sure you’re awake.
-Ilana
Henry (Jordan Mechano) shows up to wait for the bus, and meets Felix (playwright Matthew Sarookanian, impressively and perfectly awkward), a strange stranger who stands up straight without moving, even to scratch his nose, asks bizarre questions in an attempt to be friends, and seems to know everything about Henry’s life, and what will happen over the course of his day. The one thing that Felix knows is that his involvement in Henry’s day will end with Henry killing him, because it happens every time Felix has this dream.
The play, in its own unique way, has a bit of a Stranger Than Fiction vibe: a character who lives a mundane, boring, routine existence, gradually finds out that he is not the protagonist in his own story; that someone else has created him, is dictating and running his life. Seeing someone’s worldview gradually shatter can make for intriguing theatre. The play is not content just to tell this particular story, but also explores other issues. To add to the mystery, Henry encounters a woman from his past (Perrie Olthuis) and deals with his relationship with the father of his youth (Alex Sims), which alters the tone of the play, as Henry regresses toward childhood. (This is also, perhaps, a sly nod to the common complaint at Fringe that it’s all young theatre students playing older characters; the choice sidesteps it strangely but neatly.)
By the end, there are major questions as to whose dream it is; Felix knows the score and claims the dream, but all of it seems to function under Henry’s psychology (see: the regression) and experiences he must work through. Henry is also the audience’s “in” to the story, the character with whom we most identify, so it’s difficult not to see him as the protagonist. Does this mean that Henry is a part of Felix, through which Felix is working out his own issues, or does that mean that there is more to this dream sequence than meets the eye? What does Henry represent to Felix? Are they in each others’ dreams? Or, is it actually the dream of the final character left on stage? And what happens when he wakes up? The play is stretched a little thin by its end, and so it may bring up more of these questions than it can justify, but they are certainly interesting to think about. Much like a dream, as well, the characters are also thin and a little amorphous; the script is largely focused on developing its main conceit, which is understandable. The piece at the same time feels like it couldn’t be any longer with the ideas it has, and that it could benefit from getting to know the characters better; building a concrete sense of character and worldview makes shattering that sense much more powerful.
Then He Wakes Up is a thoughtful piece that is just different enough to set itself apart from the Fringe pack. It’s worthwhile viewing, though you may want to pinch yourself a couple of times to make sure you’re awake.
-Ilana
Monday, July 16, 2012
Fringe 2012 Review: Of Mice and Morro and Jasp
Morro (Heather Anne Annis) and Jasp (Amy Lee), two clowns down on their luck, are looking for their next audience participant.
“Where’s our strongman?”
A cell phone rings in the audience. It’s not a sound cue. (I think.)
“Looks like you’ve nominated yourself, sir,” declares the bossy Jasp. The audience roars in approval.
Lesson One, to everyone: never leave your phone on in a Fringe show, particularly one requiring periodic victims; uh, audience participants.
Morro and Jasp have a long and popular history in Toronto theatre, but I had never caught their performances until now; I was convinced I was uninterested in clowns. I’ll definitely have them high on my list from now on, however; they manage to be funny and moving, with a healthy dose of social commentary behind the red noses.
Playing on the current economic crisis (and its impact on the arts), the sweet but dim Morro and the mastermind, exasperated Jasp, plot to give the audience what they believe is popular these days: something deep, a tragedy, where “tragical” things happen, according to Morro. They are performing a riff on Of Mice and Men, with the two easily sliding into the roles of leader George and kind but “doesn’t know his own strength” Lennie, though they keep their own names and identities. (It’s interesting to see these roles played by women, particularly in the scene where Lennie/Morro encounters the woman he’s not supposed to interact with; for better or for worse as a social comment, it removes a layer of menace. Also removing a layer of menace is that the woman is played by a blow-up doll with a beard, but I digress.) Morro, in what is probably best for her sake, hasn’t read past the book’s first chapter. (Jasp is annoyed about this, but I’m surprised Jasp wasn’t actually trying to keep the ending from Morro, all things considered.)
In a wonderful twist on the Depression-era novella, the “demeaning” jobs the two are forced to take are those of sad, traditional birthday party or circus clowns with squeaky shoes (Morro, disbelievingly looking at a stupid costume piece, realizes “That’s the joke?!”), rather than the more sophisticated performers they would like to be, interpretive dancing to minimalist music. It’s a wonderful comment on several things; not only does it puncture our expectations of clowns, and reminds us of the jobs artists must take to pay the bills, but in a larger sense, it’s about the jobs we’re all having to take in this current economic climate that aren’t what we want to do, or where we want to be. In its own way, it’s a perfect metaphor for the new EI rules going into effect, a vicious spiral where (in a very simplified description), after a certain number of fruitless weeks, the applicant has to take a job paying 70% of their last paycheque, no matter what that job is, and then this new job becomes their “last job” and their “field” for EI purposes, so next time it’s 70% of and jobs related to that last-minute job, no matter what it is.
Morro and Jasp don’t enjoy being circus clowns, but Jasp is mostly interested in making sure Morro stays out of trouble, something the latter is patently incapable of doing, whether it involves carrying dead rats around, eating ketchup packets with relish (rimshot), participating in a truly surreal sing-along, or inadvertent murder from loving too much.
Props and set are effectively low-budget, from a washtub pond to the robo-puppy, to the malaprops on the hand-drawn title cards, to even using the audience as set. Audience participation, though always a crapshoot, is coached and handled well, and makes for some entertaining interludes.
The simple story forming Of Mice and Men works well as a framework for the pair to riff on, and it really does lend the story a tragic air. This isn’t just limited to when Jasp does to Morro what George does to Lennie, but is felt even more keenly when Morro’s finally experiences disillusionment with the dreams and promises that are never going to become real. It doesn’t matter how silly the set-up has been; everyone in the audience can relate to this feeling. But there is one final piece of audience participation left, and, without revealing the ending, it brings a smile to everyone’s face and a tear to this reviewer’s eye. With performers like Morro and Jasp around, maybe life isn’t so tragical, after all.
-Ilana
“Where’s our strongman?”
A cell phone rings in the audience. It’s not a sound cue. (I think.)
“Looks like you’ve nominated yourself, sir,” declares the bossy Jasp. The audience roars in approval.
Lesson One, to everyone: never leave your phone on in a Fringe show, particularly one requiring periodic victims; uh, audience participants.
Morro and Jasp have a long and popular history in Toronto theatre, but I had never caught their performances until now; I was convinced I was uninterested in clowns. I’ll definitely have them high on my list from now on, however; they manage to be funny and moving, with a healthy dose of social commentary behind the red noses.
Playing on the current economic crisis (and its impact on the arts), the sweet but dim Morro and the mastermind, exasperated Jasp, plot to give the audience what they believe is popular these days: something deep, a tragedy, where “tragical” things happen, according to Morro. They are performing a riff on Of Mice and Men, with the two easily sliding into the roles of leader George and kind but “doesn’t know his own strength” Lennie, though they keep their own names and identities. (It’s interesting to see these roles played by women, particularly in the scene where Lennie/Morro encounters the woman he’s not supposed to interact with; for better or for worse as a social comment, it removes a layer of menace. Also removing a layer of menace is that the woman is played by a blow-up doll with a beard, but I digress.) Morro, in what is probably best for her sake, hasn’t read past the book’s first chapter. (Jasp is annoyed about this, but I’m surprised Jasp wasn’t actually trying to keep the ending from Morro, all things considered.)
In a wonderful twist on the Depression-era novella, the “demeaning” jobs the two are forced to take are those of sad, traditional birthday party or circus clowns with squeaky shoes (Morro, disbelievingly looking at a stupid costume piece, realizes “That’s the joke?!”), rather than the more sophisticated performers they would like to be, interpretive dancing to minimalist music. It’s a wonderful comment on several things; not only does it puncture our expectations of clowns, and reminds us of the jobs artists must take to pay the bills, but in a larger sense, it’s about the jobs we’re all having to take in this current economic climate that aren’t what we want to do, or where we want to be. In its own way, it’s a perfect metaphor for the new EI rules going into effect, a vicious spiral where (in a very simplified description), after a certain number of fruitless weeks, the applicant has to take a job paying 70% of their last paycheque, no matter what that job is, and then this new job becomes their “last job” and their “field” for EI purposes, so next time it’s 70% of and jobs related to that last-minute job, no matter what it is.
Morro and Jasp don’t enjoy being circus clowns, but Jasp is mostly interested in making sure Morro stays out of trouble, something the latter is patently incapable of doing, whether it involves carrying dead rats around, eating ketchup packets with relish (rimshot), participating in a truly surreal sing-along, or inadvertent murder from loving too much.
Props and set are effectively low-budget, from a washtub pond to the robo-puppy, to the malaprops on the hand-drawn title cards, to even using the audience as set. Audience participation, though always a crapshoot, is coached and handled well, and makes for some entertaining interludes.
The simple story forming Of Mice and Men works well as a framework for the pair to riff on, and it really does lend the story a tragic air. This isn’t just limited to when Jasp does to Morro what George does to Lennie, but is felt even more keenly when Morro’s finally experiences disillusionment with the dreams and promises that are never going to become real. It doesn’t matter how silly the set-up has been; everyone in the audience can relate to this feeling. But there is one final piece of audience participation left, and, without revealing the ending, it brings a smile to everyone’s face and a tear to this reviewer’s eye. With performers like Morro and Jasp around, maybe life isn’t so tragical, after all.
-Ilana
Fringe 2012 Review: Two Weird Ladies Bomb The Fringe
The Two Weird Ladies (Laura Salvas and Mandy Sellers) don’t lie in their show title. They do, in fact, bomb the Fringe. However, they do it because of explosive humour and energy, rather than bombing the less-fortunate way many shows do. The Ladies were sold-out popular by the time I got to see them, and I can see why. They write intelligent sketches with an off-kilter sensibility, and unlike many sketch shows, they manage to tie things together cohesively, even if, technically, nothing has much to do with anything else.
The running theme in the show is the writers being “meta” – in “filler” sketches involving discussions of how they write, one of the two is hell-bent on ending every sketch with an explosion. The duo forms the classic boss/anarchist or smart/wacky comedy pair. In this case, they have a severe difference of opinion as to the direction of their show. This creates some running tension in the show, as the Ladies haven’t just hung Chekhov’s gun on the wall; they’ve lit Chekhov’s bomb!
Highlights of the show include one-upping egg salesman, a few sketches ripping on terrible charities (particularly the ones that stop you on the street), a game of “secrets” gone wrong, and a recurring gag featuring the low-budget Ghost of Bad Roommates Past. Most sketches take a dark, unexpected twist, to their major advantage. The Ladies use the fact that they are both, well, ladies, to their advantage; they take tired tropes of humour about women and add a strange enough spin on them that they are suddenly fresh again. What could have been a cliché sketch about two women getting ready for blind dates becomes a fascinating statement about friendship, desperation and need as the women’s declarations of devotion to each other become more and more violent and disturbing. A sketch involving two-faced “friends” of a bride is just crude enough to add some spice, but instead of being a traditional sketch involving the women just changing faces depending on who they’re talking to and having a “real” hatred and a “false” love of the bride, the two genuinely appear to feel both emotions. This turns the sketch into a comment on who we consider to be friends, who we keep in our lives and why, and our disappointment when we haven’t achieved what we wanted to. Of course, when you watch the sketch, you think less about how we deal with friends in the age of Facebook, and more “this is really fucking hilarious.”
The two comediennes are energetic and the pacing is sharp, lending amusement to even the weaker sketches, including the opening depressing serenade to a grandmother and some jokes about spina bifida that are trying to be edgy. There is the occasional recurring sketch, and the performers themselves, with their struggle for dominance, are a consistent theme. However, the particular genius near the end is an extended montage in which each of the sketches’ characters is allowed to respond to the main theme/danger that has been introduced. It reinforces and develops earlier jokes, along with reminding us of characters and sketches that we liked; a warm familiarity develops, along with admiration that the actors can slip in and out of each of the characters so rapidly. The show then concludes with one of the two funniest “curtain calls” I’ve seen this year at Fringe (Peter and Chris being the other one).
This bombing run is over, but make sure you see them next time; these are definitely Two Weird Ladies to watch.
-Ilana
The running theme in the show is the writers being “meta” – in “filler” sketches involving discussions of how they write, one of the two is hell-bent on ending every sketch with an explosion. The duo forms the classic boss/anarchist or smart/wacky comedy pair. In this case, they have a severe difference of opinion as to the direction of their show. This creates some running tension in the show, as the Ladies haven’t just hung Chekhov’s gun on the wall; they’ve lit Chekhov’s bomb!
Highlights of the show include one-upping egg salesman, a few sketches ripping on terrible charities (particularly the ones that stop you on the street), a game of “secrets” gone wrong, and a recurring gag featuring the low-budget Ghost of Bad Roommates Past. Most sketches take a dark, unexpected twist, to their major advantage. The Ladies use the fact that they are both, well, ladies, to their advantage; they take tired tropes of humour about women and add a strange enough spin on them that they are suddenly fresh again. What could have been a cliché sketch about two women getting ready for blind dates becomes a fascinating statement about friendship, desperation and need as the women’s declarations of devotion to each other become more and more violent and disturbing. A sketch involving two-faced “friends” of a bride is just crude enough to add some spice, but instead of being a traditional sketch involving the women just changing faces depending on who they’re talking to and having a “real” hatred and a “false” love of the bride, the two genuinely appear to feel both emotions. This turns the sketch into a comment on who we consider to be friends, who we keep in our lives and why, and our disappointment when we haven’t achieved what we wanted to. Of course, when you watch the sketch, you think less about how we deal with friends in the age of Facebook, and more “this is really fucking hilarious.”
The two comediennes are energetic and the pacing is sharp, lending amusement to even the weaker sketches, including the opening depressing serenade to a grandmother and some jokes about spina bifida that are trying to be edgy. There is the occasional recurring sketch, and the performers themselves, with their struggle for dominance, are a consistent theme. However, the particular genius near the end is an extended montage in which each of the sketches’ characters is allowed to respond to the main theme/danger that has been introduced. It reinforces and develops earlier jokes, along with reminding us of characters and sketches that we liked; a warm familiarity develops, along with admiration that the actors can slip in and out of each of the characters so rapidly. The show then concludes with one of the two funniest “curtain calls” I’ve seen this year at Fringe (Peter and Chris being the other one).
This bombing run is over, but make sure you see them next time; these are definitely Two Weird Ladies to watch.
-Ilana
Fringe 2012 Review: Camp Schecky
It’s amazing how easily certain things can regress us back to childhood. Getting on a bright yellow school bus is one of them. I was never sent to sleep-away camp as a child; arts and crafts camp was more my style. But Camp Schecky made up for that childhood experience I never knew I missed. Camp Schecky, “a play on a bus,” simulates a bus ride to summer camp. The bus is driven through the streets of Toronto by a bus driver who has probably had worse; this is a site-specific play that lives on its setting, which is a great deal of the fun. On the way to summer fun, you learn the secrets of the camp, find out about the relationships between the counsellors (and their secrets), sing camp songs, and get busted for various camp infractions. It’s extremely interactive. This is a show that’s made better if you go with a buddy; luckily, there was another lone camper on the bus who I made “BFFs” with, but getting on the bus alone does make you feel as nervous as walking into that new school. However, the counsellors are there to make everyone feel at home (if a little embarrassed).
There’s Duckie, camp second-in-command (Nicki Gallo, whose brainchild this insanity is), and shy, rules-oriented Scooter, the longest-serving employee and equipment manager (Steve Boleantu). Troy Blundell plays head of sports, and Allison Brennan head of all things nature. All actors radiate energy, likability, and presence, like the cool but strangely peppy older kids who seem to exist to become counsellors. They’re all “types” – the hippie chick, the nerd, the meathead, the sweetheart- but this isn’t a situation or play that calls for nuance or a complicated story.
The appeal of being on the bus is like sharing a little secret. It’s very entertaining to occasionally look outside at the amused or confused reactions of passerby, especially when the bus is boarded or exited. The new camp director, Lance, boards the bus partway through the tour, and this is where all the conflict begins; at first he seems like the perfect replacement boss, even with his popped collar, sweater tied around his neck and new, Gilbert-and-Sullivan flavoured camp song (okay, so I would have gone to G&S camp in a heartbeat), but soon his true colours are exposed and he is set to ruin everyone’s good time-for good. He’s basically the personification of all of the other counsellors’ bad attributes with none of the good qualities, a warning and lesson to them all.
The issue with Lance is that he becomes an absolutely cartoonish bad guy; I’m surprised he didn’t have some sort of mustache to twirl. He’s also self-contradictory in his villainy; his new camp motto is “safety first: victory second,” but he refuses to treat allergies and is turning the camp into three teams that must try to beat each other at everything, because anything less than victory is unacceptable. I’d like for him to have more of a sense of vision to his evil, rather than just anything awful at once. What is nice is that the “good guys” do have strong flaws, which initially makes Lance appear to make a few good rule changes, like coming out against theft. But, again, while it would be nice to have seen a more multidimensional portrait of Lance, rather than his fake charm immediately turning into “trying to have affairs with campers’ mothers,” this is a show that doesn’t need nuance when you’re sitting in a school bus seat. This play essentially turns us into children (preteens) again, and so we want to react like preteens, with an easy, black and white worldview, cheering our heroes and booing the villain like the audience of a melodrama. This is satisfying in itself.
A strong theme in the show is camp’s transformative properties: the chance to reinvent yourself and learn new things. By the end of our bus ride to Camp Schecky, all of the counsellors have learned a few new things about themselves, like who to trust, who they really are or might become, and how to overcome their issues to band together for success. By the end, we’ve had an awesome, largely analysis-free time, which is what summer camp is all about. And we also, apparently, can’t get the Camp Schecky theme song out of our heads, for days. No, really. I could sing every word for you right now.
-Ilana
There’s Duckie, camp second-in-command (Nicki Gallo, whose brainchild this insanity is), and shy, rules-oriented Scooter, the longest-serving employee and equipment manager (Steve Boleantu). Troy Blundell plays head of sports, and Allison Brennan head of all things nature. All actors radiate energy, likability, and presence, like the cool but strangely peppy older kids who seem to exist to become counsellors. They’re all “types” – the hippie chick, the nerd, the meathead, the sweetheart- but this isn’t a situation or play that calls for nuance or a complicated story.
The appeal of being on the bus is like sharing a little secret. It’s very entertaining to occasionally look outside at the amused or confused reactions of passerby, especially when the bus is boarded or exited. The new camp director, Lance, boards the bus partway through the tour, and this is where all the conflict begins; at first he seems like the perfect replacement boss, even with his popped collar, sweater tied around his neck and new, Gilbert-and-Sullivan flavoured camp song (okay, so I would have gone to G&S camp in a heartbeat), but soon his true colours are exposed and he is set to ruin everyone’s good time-for good. He’s basically the personification of all of the other counsellors’ bad attributes with none of the good qualities, a warning and lesson to them all.
The issue with Lance is that he becomes an absolutely cartoonish bad guy; I’m surprised he didn’t have some sort of mustache to twirl. He’s also self-contradictory in his villainy; his new camp motto is “safety first: victory second,” but he refuses to treat allergies and is turning the camp into three teams that must try to beat each other at everything, because anything less than victory is unacceptable. I’d like for him to have more of a sense of vision to his evil, rather than just anything awful at once. What is nice is that the “good guys” do have strong flaws, which initially makes Lance appear to make a few good rule changes, like coming out against theft. But, again, while it would be nice to have seen a more multidimensional portrait of Lance, rather than his fake charm immediately turning into “trying to have affairs with campers’ mothers,” this is a show that doesn’t need nuance when you’re sitting in a school bus seat. This play essentially turns us into children (preteens) again, and so we want to react like preteens, with an easy, black and white worldview, cheering our heroes and booing the villain like the audience of a melodrama. This is satisfying in itself.
A strong theme in the show is camp’s transformative properties: the chance to reinvent yourself and learn new things. By the end of our bus ride to Camp Schecky, all of the counsellors have learned a few new things about themselves, like who to trust, who they really are or might become, and how to overcome their issues to band together for success. By the end, we’ve had an awesome, largely analysis-free time, which is what summer camp is all about. And we also, apparently, can’t get the Camp Schecky theme song out of our heads, for days. No, really. I could sing every word for you right now.
-Ilana
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Fringe 2012 Review: pomme is french for apple
Note: this review contains mature language appropriate to the discussion of the show.
pomme is french for apple, but it’s also very close to Jamaican slang for vagina, as the dynamic writer-actor duo of Liza Paul and Bahia Watson helpfully explain to their audience. Watson, playing feisty and free, and Paul, playing shy and reserved, share a sketch comedy show with us that gives us all different perspectives on vaginas and the women who own them – or vice versa, as the case may be. An insider’s perspective, if you will. The ladies are completely uninhibited, with wicked senses of humour and comic timing. Most of the sketches focus on what men do correctly and incorrectly in their treatment of women, and what women do correctly and incorrectly in the treatment of their vaginas.
The set-up, an almost anthropological explanation of the term, is very helpful and provides interesting cultural information, and also the knowledge that, if you don’t understand something in the various accents and patois the performers very successfully employ, you can assume they’re still talking about, well, that thing that sounds like pomme. It’s also very welcoming to a diverse audience, and lets us know that it’s okay if we feel moved to respond to anything on stage. This was both a freeing statement for the audience, and showed that the women know their audience was likely to include “responders” and wanted to make the rest of a more reserved audience comfortable with that.
The show might have called itself “The Vagina Dialogues,” because a huge part of it is made up of just that. Kudos to the costume designer or director for an amazingly simple concept, which works wonders for imagery and maximum humour impact: the women wear a scarf-like, unbroken strip of pink cloth attached in a circle (a Moebius vagina?) around their necks. When the time is right, they pull it forward, stretch it out (in appropriately varied ways) and use their talking heads and hair in perfect placement for – okay, I’m getting a little embarrassed just writing this review. Suffice it to say that it’s a stunningly effective, simple visual that is funny every time, mostly because the actors imbue them with different personalities, whether they’re talking about the need for freedom from tight jeans and panties, or one is lording it over the other, who in contrast to her owner’s religious convictions, is very upset about the lack of oral attention she has received.
All of this sounds a bit puerile, and in some ways it is. You have to be “in the mood” for this type of humour, so to speak, and sometimes, as a reserved person who is easily embarrassed, I wanted to crawl under my chair and stay there. But the outspoken vaginas mostly feel provocative and bold, and if they won’t speak for themselves, who will?
Other sketches that score include “men’s habits on trial,” and the epidemic of “no-game-itis” sweeping the nation, alongside a song urging him to “take your hand off my head.” Songs are a major plus in the show; both women have lovely voices.
The audience was absolutely roaring with approval and delight the day I went; at noon, no less. Clearly, these fresh voices have struck a chord. Though the occasional “blackout sketch: is a little too quick to work (we’re expecting a full story) and the endings of sketches to land with a proper button more of the time is something to work on, there is so much fearless talent on stage that it doesn’t really matter. By the end, easily-embarrassed me was only disappointed that we didn’t get one last reappearance of the vagina dialogues.
-Ilana
pomme is french for apple, but it’s also very close to Jamaican slang for vagina, as the dynamic writer-actor duo of Liza Paul and Bahia Watson helpfully explain to their audience. Watson, playing feisty and free, and Paul, playing shy and reserved, share a sketch comedy show with us that gives us all different perspectives on vaginas and the women who own them – or vice versa, as the case may be. An insider’s perspective, if you will. The ladies are completely uninhibited, with wicked senses of humour and comic timing. Most of the sketches focus on what men do correctly and incorrectly in their treatment of women, and what women do correctly and incorrectly in the treatment of their vaginas.
The set-up, an almost anthropological explanation of the term, is very helpful and provides interesting cultural information, and also the knowledge that, if you don’t understand something in the various accents and patois the performers very successfully employ, you can assume they’re still talking about, well, that thing that sounds like pomme. It’s also very welcoming to a diverse audience, and lets us know that it’s okay if we feel moved to respond to anything on stage. This was both a freeing statement for the audience, and showed that the women know their audience was likely to include “responders” and wanted to make the rest of a more reserved audience comfortable with that.
The show might have called itself “The Vagina Dialogues,” because a huge part of it is made up of just that. Kudos to the costume designer or director for an amazingly simple concept, which works wonders for imagery and maximum humour impact: the women wear a scarf-like, unbroken strip of pink cloth attached in a circle (a Moebius vagina?) around their necks. When the time is right, they pull it forward, stretch it out (in appropriately varied ways) and use their talking heads and hair in perfect placement for – okay, I’m getting a little embarrassed just writing this review. Suffice it to say that it’s a stunningly effective, simple visual that is funny every time, mostly because the actors imbue them with different personalities, whether they’re talking about the need for freedom from tight jeans and panties, or one is lording it over the other, who in contrast to her owner’s religious convictions, is very upset about the lack of oral attention she has received.
All of this sounds a bit puerile, and in some ways it is. You have to be “in the mood” for this type of humour, so to speak, and sometimes, as a reserved person who is easily embarrassed, I wanted to crawl under my chair and stay there. But the outspoken vaginas mostly feel provocative and bold, and if they won’t speak for themselves, who will?
Other sketches that score include “men’s habits on trial,” and the epidemic of “no-game-itis” sweeping the nation, alongside a song urging him to “take your hand off my head.” Songs are a major plus in the show; both women have lovely voices.
The audience was absolutely roaring with approval and delight the day I went; at noon, no less. Clearly, these fresh voices have struck a chord. Though the occasional “blackout sketch: is a little too quick to work (we’re expecting a full story) and the endings of sketches to land with a proper button more of the time is something to work on, there is so much fearless talent on stage that it doesn’t really matter. By the end, easily-embarrassed me was only disappointed that we didn’t get one last reappearance of the vagina dialogues.
-Ilana
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