Saturday, December 31, 2016

Self-Care: A 24-Decade Reflection

For months I’ve struggled to write about my time at Taylor Mac’s A 24-Decade History of Popular Music.  I could not head into 2017 with this piece hanging over my head any longer.  Here goes...

It seems every journalistic outlet sent a critic to see the show and they all universally praised it. With each article I read celebrating it, the harder it was for me to write this difficult admission: I “experienced” the show but I did not love that experience.  And I’m not sure I was meant to love it. 

The show made me confront an issue I was unprepared to.  My own need for self-care. In two shows I experienced this year I was faced with my own personal anxieties through audience participation.  In one show, the artist worked hard to care for me in that precarious space.  In the other, judy did not. 

Typically, there is no expectation that artists tend to their audience's personal needs.  The artists are often there to provoke and challenge.  Safety or security can grind against the goal of pushing an audience to confront or engage.  But in crafting work that specifically calls for the audience to be a part of the work, I do think artists bear in mind the nature and shape of that participation. 

For instance, I watched Daniel Oliver in his piece Weird Séance get naked in a room full of tentative audience participants as they wandered through a world he created with them. He gently nudged them along to get what he needed. Taking them by the hand, he guided them through the scenes. There was violence, blood, humor, and yet I sensed his awareness of the participants.  With his care, he made the uniting of artist and unknowing strangers harmonious.  It was one of my favorite shows at the Forest Fringe in 2016.

Brian Lobel made me dance like no one was watching in a room where some people were watching in his piece Hold My Hand and We’re Halfway There.  I was always put in the back of every dance number in high school theater even though I was really short because I could not even grapevine.  Public dancing is not my strong-suit.  In fact, it’s one of my greatest fears, especially if there are steps and a “right way to do things.”  My feet choose the wrong way every time.  But Brian was not asking for the “right way.”  He was asking for a temporary partner to join him for short bursts to recreate dance numbers from movie musicals in a replica bedroom of his childhood.  We just happened to be standing in the middle of an arts center café while we did it.  Exposed and open, this was the perfect setting for me to panic.  And yet, I put headphones on and fumbled my way through a number from Muriel’s Wedding and Fiddler on the Roof.  He disarmed me and made me feel I could do no wrong. I came away understanding Brian’s piece and wanting to be a part of it. 

So with these positive audience participation situations under my belt, disliking my experience at A 24-Decade came as a shock to me. I had no qualms about attending A 24-Decade (my only hesitation was the steep price tag).  I paid and was honestly curious what this extravaganza would entail.  Somewhere between hour 9 and hour 13 a disconnection to the show began to gnaw at me.  That led to a raging fury in my head that reached levels I could not ignore.  By hour 13, I’d had enough. 

It came to an apex for me with the physical scrum we had to engage in to represent the Oklahoma land grab.  The audience had to rush to nab a limited number of balloons and plant them on a piece of land if you wanted a place to sit on the floor.  I was battered by the crowd who pushed, shoved and elbowed me.  There was something in that brutality transferred to the audience that broke me.  I did not want to be around any of these people anymore and in fact I wanted to crawl in a hole maybe not to resurface. 

I’m pretty susceptible to pain—on stage or off—at the best of times.  In this show, I started to question how much pain I was meant to endure for art.

Mac’s original inspiration was seeing the gay community come together for a gay pride march while the AIDS epidemic was ravaging the same group of people.  So Mac applied this to the many generations of outsiders who have pushed forward to build even while they are being torn apart.  

If the show’s intent was to tear down the audience in an effort to demonstrate how community forms from such destruction, I got somehow left in pieces with no one to put me back together.  Others gained a closeness and community from the show. I was disappointingly isolated.  

In the end, I was left with more ambivalence towards A 24-Decade, than most critics had.  I started to wonder if I had failed the piece or if the piece had failed me.  I could not shake the uncomfortable sense of my own personal failure.  Maybe I was not as flexible, cool, and hip enough to get into the groove of it. 

Why did it come so easily for this massive room full of people (oh my god there were too many people all squished into a space that was not big enough for all of us) and why was I the only one struggling?  Were my needs (emotional or physical) somehow a failure?  Was I asking for too much from the show?  Why could I not feel the euphoria others did?  What was I doing wrong? Where was my euphoria?  Did they hand it out while I was in the bathroom?

For those not familiar with what the show was, for every hour of the show, there was an hour of American history laid before us.  From Revolutionary soldiers to Civil Rights protesters to a radical lesbian cookout to a man alone on stage, raspy-voiced, singing songs judy wrote.  The selection of music included traditional tunes, rock and pop favorites, and B-side tracks I’d never heard. 

For each decade, Mac donned a new costume (crafted with meticulous symbolism and a trashy sculptural flair by Machine Dazzle).  Mac performed the entire show with only a few bathroom breaks and microphone passes to back-up singers.  Judy began with a full orchestra and every hour the stage would lose a performer until we reached the end where it was Mac alone.  Judy hardly wavered when my butt was giving out. Judy dazzled and commanded the space non-stop.  And judy did it in heels.  

In the sweeping quilt of ideas, images, and song, judy focused on nation building, colonialism, war, protest, oppression, race, gender, and sexual orientation. Judy talked politics, mothers, anonymous sex, and AIDS.

Although this show took place over 24 hours, I don't think it was spiritually a durational piece.  Judy made a series of deeply crafted 3-hour concerts which were performed before this marathon in that format.  Most of the segments boasted a strong conceptual core and an overarching purpose.  They were rich with imagery, involved physical adventures for the audience to undertake, and of course laden with song after song representing judy’s subjective views on American history.  

Unlike durational work where your focus can wander, this density of creativity required your full attention.  On top of that, the show and Mac demanded a substantial contribution and sacrifice by the audience.  We stacked and unstacked chairs.  Judy segregated the audience to demonstrate white flight.  Judy had us do battle with imaginary weapons pointed at one another.  We spent an hour blindfolded and at some point shoved a grape in the face of our neighbor. We were forcibly moved around the room.  The audience was both a part of the show and mechanism to be manipulated.  They were judy’s rules and we played by them. 

Mac’s disruptive personality when taken in 3-hour doses delivers an effective punch.  Expanded to the 24-hour format, the accumulation of tension and conflict pushed at my limits.  

There was an edge of viciousness as well.  For instance, there were moments we were asked to throw ping pong balls at other audience members as well as Mac (we were homophobes and judy was the last queer we pelted as judy moved around the room).
During The Marskado (a take on The Mikado set on Mars to avoid cultural appropriation issues) Mac made a man sing “Tit willow” over and over again.  Saying, “sing ‘Tit Willow’ until you cry.”  When he did not start crying, Mac kept calling for him to keep singing.  Finally threatening, “I'm ok with the whole show just being this.”  A big laugh from the audience followed.  

The cruelty on display was a surrogate for America in various forms--calling for societal conformity, your body for war, or a palpable recognition of the power you possessed or repossessed from someone else.  Mac would tease that some of these vocal or physical activities were “going to go on longer than you want it to.”   And they did. 

So without question Mac made a show that was meant to be a trial (for judy and for us).  Mac explicitly said it was our responsibility to take care of ourselves.  Judy was not going to do it for us. 

Maybe my fatal flaw was that I did not expect myself to have needs.  I packed emergency peanut butter sandwiches and a thermos of tea.  I had snacks and comfortable clothes on.  I was as ready as I could be for something I could not foresee.  But I was jolted by how hard it was for me to stay in the room.  How pummeled I was by the experience.  How personally I took the show. I was a raw wound being poked and prodded for hours.  Was this not failure but success? I felt too much.  Was that the point?

I took breaks every couple of hours and left the room.  Introvert recharge moments were covered by cell phone recharge moments.  I stretched and moved and stood and sat.  And saw friends and moved on my own.  And even with all that, a growing rage began to form.  Not at American imperialism, colonialism, or prejudice.  I found myself in a tremendous power struggle with the art and my mind and my body. 

I have to believe this was intentional.  Mac’s work was focused on the wrongs America has done to the powerless, the derided, the outsiders, and the non-conformists.  But rather than find anyone reaching out in this, I was knocked to the ground as I tried to grab a balloon so I could just sit down.  I buckled under the weight of the work and I felt like I had lost. 

I know how I would have done in the American West.  I would have starved and died early in the journey.  But I knew that before going to this show.  That was not particularly a lesson I needed to learn. 

So when I cracked, I left the show.  I went home for a few hours, napped and returned.  It may have been a small victory to take some power back for myself.  But it helped.  I sailed through the last 8 hours not enraptured like others around me.  But less hostile.  I had reset my mind.  

I could enjoy the giant inflatable penis bouncing around the room and slow dance at the queer prom with a woman less into this entire endeavor than I was (I'm not sure who she was but maaaaannnnn she was really annoyed at having to dance with a woman). 

Of all the high style and drama that the show offered, the part that has stayed with me was one of the smaller moments.  judy told a story about a near-gaybashing incident that judy experienced with a friend.  A stranger had approached them in a Polish food restaurant and threatened them.  The bully demanded Mac’s friend eat a pierogi.  And the friend said, he would if the bully would feed it to his ass.  And this went back and forth for a while until the bully capitulated to Mac’s friend’s demand; and fed the pierogi into his ass.  It was a lesson in shame, consent, and power.  Mac’s friend had successfully denied the bully his goal, which was to shame them.  Instead, Mac’s friend had managed to push the shame back onto the bully.

The show was in the October and as I watched political fights on the internet unfold for a week following the show, and the national dialogue shift to misogyny and sexual assault, this push and pull over shame seemed so present.  

As the months have passed since seeing the show, I’ve brought up this story of the pierogi a lot.  The power of shame is an important topic we don’t talk about and judy got at the heart of it. 

In the end, I'm surprised by the joy people got out of the show.  Maybe they were able to celebrate their survival, their persistence, their success in the face of so much hostility.  

For me, all I can say is that I tried.  I went in with an open heart which got broke a whole lot during the night.   It was not what I expected.  But as Mac says "Everything you are feeling is appropriate."  

Friday, December 23, 2016

Top 10 of 2016: US edition

In 2016 I promised myself I would cut back on theater.  I saw 90 less shows in 2016 (180) than I did in 2015 (270).  <pats self on the back>

Here are the 10 shows which made me sit up and take notice in 2016.  They range from experimental performance to Shakespeare to experimental Shakespeare to American plays to Broadway musicals.  I seem to have been heavily influenced by strong directorial choices, nuanced character portraits, and some extreme derring-do as well.  

1. Waitress I found myself swimming against critical tides on this show this year but I reveled in the rare pleasure of seeing the female gaze on stage.  I needed this show with its nuanced depiction of female friendships, emotional abuse, cycles of domestic violence, and the reticence of impending motherhood.  Bucking the trend of women who get “punished” for breaking with expectation, these women have sexual agency and make choices that are complicated but in the end, they survive.  The musical is better than the production and there are a few missteps (a catchy, jovial ditty about stalking).  But it felt like it was whispering in my ear, “You are seen.  You matter.”  And having felt for years a massive amount of female erasure in theater this was a welcome addition to the Broadway canon.  

2. Natasha, Pierre, and The Great Comet of 1812 Director Rachel Chavkin strikes again.  This may be a musical with music and lyrics by Dave Malloy but it’s Chavkin and designer Mimi Lien who made this work sing for me.  The lobby of the theater is 21st century Russia—remnants of Soviet brutalist architecture, Pussy Riot posters, and overwhelming sense of gray.  But once you enter the theater it is Imperialist sumptuousness.  You’ve literally made a journey of a century within a few steps.  But the red draped walls are the only traditional thing in the theater.  Instead, an anachronistic, swirling, immersive extravaganza awaits. Though I’m more a fan of the production than the musical, the production pushes hard at our understanding of what a Broadway musical can be in smart and aggressive ways.  The multi-ethnic cast is not a topic of the piece at all.  Similarly, in a ballroom scene when men are dancing with men and women are dancing with women, it’s done with the casualness that should accord such behavior in 2016.  Yet that kind of nonchalance is rare on Broadway.  Characters aren’t usually queer without a declaration or explanation in musicals and it’s welcome relief that they just are.  Bonus points for some Beyonce style explosive entrances that tell us everything we need to know about certain characters.  Chavkin wastes nothing on stage and the moments of quiet magic against boisterous celebration give us a full range of her skills. 

3. Othello:  With The Glass Menagerie in Amsterdam and this production of Othello, Sam Gold has assuredly proved himself as a director who can work wonders with revivals—and revivals of plays I maybe didn’t think I wanted to see.  Using a bold design aesthetic that created the stifling and incestuous environment of an army barrack, soldiers, lovers, rivals, and frenemies are piled into one room with lights up on the audience and together we all see this tragedy through to its inevitable conclusion. Daniel Craig was lighter on his feet than in past NY stage forays and he seemed older, wirier, and yet amped for his turn as Iago. David Oyelowo, on the other hand, read so much younger than Craig (he’s 40 to Craig’s 48) and more of a peer to an adult Desdemona (Rachel Brosnahan avoiding the helpless, fragile characterizations that so often plague Des).  This age dynamic made Iago’s jealousy read more true as someone passed over for a younger rival.  And Othello and Desdemona’s love affair less that of a creepy old man stealing away someone’s child as a young woman knowing her mind and seeking it with a charismatic partner.   The female characters felt stronger and clearer here.  And there are aspects of the production that don't work (why does Bianca live under a table) but more often than not it clicks.

4. Kings of War:  Ivo van Hove can be hit (A View from the Bridge) or miss (Lazarus).  He’s been accused of every theatrical violation under the sun and he’s guilty of many (ignoring the text and misogyny, recently).  But when he has rich source material to dig into (here Henry V, Henry VI, and Richard III), he can peel away excess and somehow find more meaning in the minimalism.  He boils down all this Shakespearean machination to the repetitive process of murder-murder-murder, gain crown, murder-murder-murder, lose crown, rinse, repeat. But in each of these transactions the scars of the past haunt every gain and loss until when finally seen in the aggregate we feel none of these families has gained more than they have lost.  Using a repertory company of actors, familiar faces echo familial lines. Although the piece is 4 hours it breezes by and like the best of durational work it’s the collection of the experience as a whole that changes your understanding of individual parts. Van Hove continues to find unexpected and bold strokes to define the theatrical space— endless hallways, live film projections, sheep, blood, and a bit of rock and roll keep us guessing and intrigued. 

5. Skeleton Crew:  I ended up seeing this play twice and it was worth the extra visit to appreciate the fine work of the performers.  Skeleton Crew by Dominique Morisseau takes places in the midst of Detroit auto industry union workers.  As the characters hang around the break-room of their plant, we watch careful portraits colored with fine brushes.  The guy carrying a gun, the pregnant mother, and and the salty old timer are far from stereotypes and challenge us to look beyond labels. The political backdrop was there but it never overpowered the human drama.  Morisseau wove into her story elements of crime, love, family, homelessness, class, race, and labor.  But months later what stays with me is the human cost of all those issues.  Ruben Santiago-Hudson’s beautiful production made me care about the people in front of me where one woman’s life was lived for decades in front of her union locker.

6. Underground Railroad Game: In one of the most unsettling pieces of theater in 2016, Underground Railroad Game trades in race, sex games, and the Civil War.  An unusual devised piece by Jennifer Kidwell and Scott Sheppard that has the audience motorboating taboos whether they want to be there or not. Once you’ve paid your fare you’re now under the control of artists who will take you on whatever ride they like.  In this case, you will confront power and sex through questions of dominance, submission, and how those issues have cropped up in the racial history of America. And you might even laugh too.  But it's that kind of laugh that will dissipate when you've caught up with the tricks these artists have up their sleeves.  

7. Richard II:  I can't believe I have three Shakespeare productions on my list this year and this was the most traditional of the three. It was an RSC production by Gregory Doran which illuminated the play in a new way and highlighted the talents of David Tennant. When I had seen this play performed before (with the utterly useless Eddie Redmayne in a production by Michael Grandage) I did not really understand how this story of the divine right of kings really resonate in modern society. It felt like a relic of a time and place that no longer offered contemporary parallels. But Doran's production nourished my lawyer's mind, giving Richard's arguments and explanations and monologues a Socratic air. He pressed at language, reason, and discourse to make contradictions read like debate. The tensions of the play were not just between Bolingbroke and Richard but within Richard himself. And it did not have modern meaning, but I understood its place in its world.

8. Yesterday Tomorrow: Annie Dorsen’s algorithmic performance piece had a computer program convert Yesterday by The Beatles into Tomorrow from Annie.  Professional singers followed the computers instructions as the words and notes morphed from one song into the other.  From sense to nonsense back to sense this deconstruction and reconstruction gave us a unique purview on the act of creation. Watching the program find it's way made you root for the computer.  It was strangely beautiful, playful, and joyful. 

9. IronboundMartyna Majok is just starting to get productions in New York and that’s a very good thing.  Her play, Ironbound, with its dark humor, stubborn protagonist, and specific setting made for a powerful introduction to her voice.  She's not afraid of darkness, sentiment, and humor and happily she gives all the best bits to female characters.  Marin Ireland as Darja offered a trenchant portrait of a women who has built walls around herself after years of disappointment, loss, and betrayal.  As we laugh with her at the comedy of life, we feel her dented and damaged soul try to right itself in a complicated and ever challenging world. 

10. Oh, Hello:  I did not expect this show to be such a love letter to cranky New Yorkers of a certain generation and the American theater.  Comedians John Mulaney and Nick Kroll, with high-school drama club powdered hair age themselves up to the spectacular ordinariness of Gil Faison and George St. Geegland. An "actor" and a "writer" who've lived on the Upper West Side in a rent controlled apartment together for 40 years. They fancy themselves artists who've been waiting for their breaks and they are still waiting.   I sort of imagine if things did not work out for Dustin Hoffman’s Michael Dorsey in Tootsie, this is who he would have become—self-serious about his art, bitter about the passage of time, and on a day-to-day basis molesting olives at Fairway.  Mulaney and Kroll, with specificity and precision create an indelible picture of these men and their world.  They exaggerate it just enough to make it comedy but real enough to make it true. New York and its theater subcultures get the right balance of lampoon and love. There is a sweet intimacy to their whackadoodle 40-year friendship.  Gil gingerly holds George's finger like a child clutching at the parent for serenity.  Even if fame has come to them so late, at least they’ve had each other all along. 

Honorable Mentions: Performances, Shows, and Moments that made 2016 Memorable

· It was nice to see 2015 favorites return in 2016, including the still exciting YOUARENOWHERE and the new cast of Small Mouth Sounds (another Chavkin production).

· I could not ignore the brilliant mess and WTF’ness of Rupert Goold’s American Psycho. On the whole it did not work but the entire crew deserves some points for trying and for the weird, fascinating result.

· Brandon Jacobs-Jenkins An Octoroon made my Top 10 in 2014, but Joanna Settle’s production in Philadelphia was like a wholly different beast from Sarah Benson’s New York production and it deserves a mention of its own. With a rap crew on stage and some live chickens, it had an entirely unique feel and demonstrated the great flexibility the underlying play could offer.

· I’m glad Mfoniso Udofia’s Sojourners which will be back in 2017 at NYTW. This play (part of a large series) about the Nigerian diaspora introduced Udofia’s singular voice to me and reminded me how little we see African immigrant stories on stage.

· Sister Sylvester remains one of my favorite companies and this work-in-progress, They Are Gone But Here I Must Remain, about protest, misogyny, and Greece reminded me why. Their approach to narrative is never the easy way in. Multi-layered, non-linear, with a lot of different stylistic tricks, and including a live chicken, this is not what you’d expect and that’s why their work continues to thrill and provoke.

· New downtown actor fave, Alex Grubbs grabbed my attention in Utility and now he’s on my must see list. He also popped up in Leah Nakano Winkler’s funny and dark Kentucky.  

· Lord love Mark Rylance and his spacey, ruminations in Nice Fish.  I'd watch him do just about anything.

· I was totally appreciative of The Secret Garden concert for bringing back Daisy Eagan and reminding me what a beautiful score that show has.

· I’m a sucker for livestock on stage (obviously with all these live chicken references) so I paid a pretty penny to see the opera, De Materie, which had sheep and remote control zeppelins—I have no regrets.  TOTALLY WORTH IT TO SEE LIVE SHEEP ON STAGE.  The zeppelins were an unexpected bonus

· The international collaboration Article 13 about borders, refugees, and immigration set a lot of the Philadelphia waterfront on fire which was cool but the haunting sound of a train to nowhere on top of that stunning setting was something else and I was glad to see how installation performance could be integrated into an outdoor setting.

· It turns out feminist manifesto Revolt. She Said. Revolt Again. by Alice Birch can be done very very well (Soho Rep/Lileana Blain-Cruz) and it can be done really poorly (RSC/Erica Whyman) and I got to see both in 2016.  Not all productions are equal and I was glad to see a radical production that got my blood going and one that was entirely bloodless.

· Scott Pask's interpretive and abstract set in The Cherry Orchard.  

· The strange and ethereal space and time of Daniel Alexander Jones's Duat.

· The Wolves deserves mention for providing space for a large female ensemble and capturing the world and reality of young women today.

· I finally saw A Taste of Honey and it turns out Shelagh Delaney is still a badass in 2016.

· I was late to Adam Rapp's work.  So for me, William Apps, desperate and sweaty-palms, in Purple Lights of Joppa, Illinois was a 2016 discovery.

· Jessica Lange making really interesting, unexpected choices as Mary Tyrone in Long Day's Journey Into Night.  Too bad no one else in the production was on the same probing page.

· Dear Evan Hansen has got some Act 2 issues but I was swept away by the music and lyrics and the quiet sorrow sung in this new musical which got tighter as it moved to Broadway.

· Benedict Andrew's production of A Streetcar Named Desire flickered between swaths of greatness and tedium. However there is a moment when Stanley is drunk and just back from taking Stella to the hospital where Ben Foster clings to the fire escape as the rotating entire set makes its way around the circle.  Whether he is being dragged into Blanche's maelstrom or it's his effort to touch her world, the moment is disturbing and sickening. From there he will rape her.  But in that exact moment, he's suspended and it almost feels like if the set reversed maybe the inevitable would not be so. Ultimately, it is Ben Foster's performance as Stanley here that got me to pay attention.  Rather than play on sex appeal, Foster's Stanley is a beefy, inarticulate, dumb, pontificating mook.  He tries his hardest to cover these things with anger, outrage, power, or punches. Foster's Stanley is a mediocre white man of today (obviously an incredibly handsome movie star version of that but he makes every effort to play that down). For the first time I saw Stanley as not just a man. In this contemporary setting he's the patriarchy which has driven Blanche to her last nerve.  She cannot flirt, reason, or talk her way out of this system that prevents her from being anything without a man but punishes her for succumbing to needs or desire, in a system they built.

Friday, May 20, 2016

Backstage in Biscuit Land: Welcoming All

Courtesy of Touretteshero
"Hands on buzzards."
"Biscuit wave."
"Pony cunts."

Suddenly, Jess Thom looks sheepish. That last phrase was unplanned.

Language is slippery and in Backstage In Biscuit Land we are led by a loose tongue. Well, that's not quite accurate. Our guide is neurological because the artist behind the show has Tourette's Syndrome. With physical and verbal tics, Jess Thom cannot always control what she says and how she moves. The result: she says biscuit, hedgehog, and cats a lot. But she is also a creative font of phrases, words, and juxtapositions that make you laugh and think.

The show is unrestrained and lively. Devised and performed by Jess Thom and Jess Mabel Jones, Jess Thom is the host with her trusty sidekick Chopin (Jess Mabel Jones). It has the high-kick energy of a kids morning show and the wacky props to go along with that (all the items on stage were generated by Jess's tics at one point in time or another--a loaf of Steve, a dinosaur balloon, ducks in costumes, an anvil with the word "Dinner" written on it).  They sing slightly dirty songs, play fake game shows, encourage the audience to do the "biscuit wave" and embrace a sense of play.  Ultimately, Backstage in Biscuit Land is an unusual personal monologue that drifts into almost non-stop improv as Jess's verbal tics provide frequent misdirection.

She may be trying to tell you serious and important things when her tics insert their mischief. Yet, they don't derail the storytelling or the evening. That's the point. She embraces these asides and she harnesses them to make this a story about life with Tourette's but also about what happens when we try to isolate and segregate the unexpected from the planned.  Her going off script creates joy, laughter, and pleasure. Why don't we allow our theater spaces the same kind of flexible attitude?

Her message of inclusivity springs from a painful episode Thom experienced at the theater in 2011 where she was asked at intermission if she wouldn't mind moving to the sound booth at a show because other patrons were threatening to leave because of her tics.

At this point in the show, when she tells us this uncomfortable story, she has already charmed us with her word play. She's created genuine warmth with Chopin in their goofy, vaudeville doubles-act.  Then she hits us with a tale of segregation and isolation.  She lightens the mood immediately after but the work has been done. She's gotten under our skin. We must confront the question of who's experience we are giving primacy to in theater spaces.

Thom is an advocate for the "relaxed performance" which means the rules of theater etiquette are loosened.  She lives and demonstrates what a relaxed atmosphere can create. In the audience at her show last night, a baby cooed, people ticced, and there were bursts of robust laughter (and no audience policing or tsking that followed). In relaxed performance, audiences members are permitted to get up and move around.  Everyone is welcome (and as I spoke to Thom about a few months ago, the "relaxed" label allows anyone to fit under its umbrella).  No one is self-conscious about the things that "uptight" performances tend to frown upon.

In a time where there seems to be a relentless effort to get audiences to conform to some unwritten rulebook of what is "proper," Thom gives everyone a space to make the evening their own and no one misses the strict rules for a moment (and you get a cookie!).  For Thom, this flexibility is a necessity, but she makes us think about all the people we are excluding when we do not also make this a priority for all. 

Monday, April 4, 2016

Ironbound: Rationing Love

Marin Ireland & Morgan Spector. Photo by Sandra Coudert
Martyna Majok's new play Ironbound slyly lures you in with a well-set snare.  She gets you comfortable watching a couple fight.  The dialogue is funny.  The performances are keen.  Maybe we think we know who these people are.  But what Ironbound remarkably does is unwind one character, Darja, and let us see how she this bruised and defensive woman was made by her life experiences.  Nothing is as simple, straight-forward, or obvious as you think. 

Darja (Marin Ireland) has come from Poland because her husband Maks (Joseph Bania) dreamed of this journey. But somehow two husbands later she finds herself not far from where she began, under an overpass waiting at a bus stop fighting with her boyfriend.  She lives with Tommy (Morgan Spector), a postal worker, and frets over her son Alex who has taken off with her car. She and Tommy have a blow out and it's hard to know where she will land.

The structure of the play with flashbacks gives us insight to how the events of her life have added up to what we see before us. We agonizingly watch her learn her emotional limits and erect the boundaries that she makes for herself.  We also get a glimmer as to why.  There are things she will never say and there are parts of her we cannot know.  But we see how much of Darja's tough facade is built before our eyes.

Marin Ireland, as Darja, gives us all shades of this character's toughness and resolve. We watch the layers of hurt, betrayal, pain, disappointment, abandonment, abuse, work, and work and work add up.  We see her claw her way to America from Poland.  We see her life improve and we see backsliding.  But she has no choice but to press on.  We watch how she survives--because ultimately this is a story of that messy, frustrating, constant battle to just keep living. Yet in that fight, surprisingly, she never stops loving.  However, she rations her love. She keeps it on a shelf, protected from casual jostling.  She takes it out and only looks at it sparingly. 

Majok creates a character who is somehow direct and full of subterfuge. She is desperate and protective of her weaknesses. She is full of contradictions that all add up to sense.  Because of this she cannot help but remind you of people you know--tough people who live between worlds, those who struggle to make ends meet, or those who have always left you a bit puzzled when you meet them because they are here and yet somewhere else at the same time.

The strength of the character is made even more glorious in performance.  Ireland is skittish fury. Her anger has nuanced inflections. It rises and falls with her triumphs and defeats, and her triumphs that are defeats. For all that is revealed in Majok's script, Ireland manages to hold back as well.  She gives Darja an underbelly of the unspoken.  She holds it all in her body.  In one moment, with her back to the audience, she kicks at rocks on the ground.  She says nothing in that moment but the way she holds her body, shielding it from our gaze, and turning inward, it speaks to us.

Morgan Spector is an equal foil.  He walks the line as the schlub who's not perfect but who wants to be better.  He could have easily strayed into overblown caricature but he finds this man's sad reality and plays this not-delicate character with detailed care. 

For the most part the play is a carefully constructed portrait of these characters.  One character who is quite peripheral ends up as more of a catalyst for conversation than a fully-drawn person.  Some of the writing and performance surrounding him are done in quick, broad strokes.  It's not fatal to the play because so much of the rest of the piece is handled with tremendous nuance and care.  But that's why it stands out a bit as not quite as strong as the rest.

Nevertheless, Daniella Topol's direction keeps this material vibrant and grounded--we're in a real place, with real people, and even using flashbacks we do not lose our sense of the corporeal.

The show runs through April 24th at Rattlestick Playwrights Theater.  
I attended on a complimentary ticket.

Sunday, January 24, 2016

Rey: I Needed Her

I didn't know how much I needed Rey until I met her.  
Image: Lucasfilm 
I'm one of those children of the Return of the Jedi generation--in the sweet-spot of Kenner marketing for Star Wars toys but a little too young to have seen Star Wars or Empire Strikes Back in the theater. But by the time Return of the Jedi came out my little brother and I were primed for it.  It was the first and only time we would see a movie at the one screen movie theater in our hometown.  They tore down the theater two years later.

Star Wars was so woven into the fabric of our childhoods.  My first crush was Han Solo, natch.  And from a Harrison Ford obsession I found myself cutting clippings out of movie magazines, learning about filmmaking, and finally becoming a student filmmaker myself.  
In my later life, I even helped launch the Star Wars Fan Film Awards at AtomFilms.  I visited Skywalker Ranch and saw the original lightsaber.  And if I did nothing else in my film career that was a really good day.

But like many childhood things, you put them away.  In a wave of nostalgia (selling the last of our original Star Wars toys at a family yard sale a few months ago as my mother was moving out of our childhood home) The Force Awakens came at a propitious time for me.  I was curious about where this story might go and I dragged my brother out to see it on Christmas at the multiplex at the nearby mall.  But it turned out I did not need the relic of my past as much as I thought I did. What I wanted was a new future, brimming with hope and for me that is what The Force Awakens has provided. 

SPOILER BASED DISCUSSION OF THE FORCE AWAKENS.  Do not read further unless you have seen the film. 


This brings me to Rey.  Having avoided all spoilers or even buzz about The Force Awakens I had no idea it had a female heroine--a protagonist who is loyal, hard-working, dedicated to her friends, and as she discovers, a damn good pilot.  Alone on her planet and waiting for her family (taken from her by force it would seem) to return to her, she lives a dull, repetitive existence with little adventure and not a lot of comfort.  Her life is defined by hostility.  Totally can relate, Rey.  I live in New York City.  It’s like that shitty desert outpost with bad housing, pig-like men who somehow control your fate, and everything costs way too much. 

But Rey manages to keep pushing forward despite this world of hers which hardly encourages her at all.  We see signs of her imagination (a Resistance fighter doll she keeps on her shelf which looks homemade, playing with a Resistance pilot's helmet), her dreams of beauty (a dying flower that she keeps in her house, her dream of the ocean, her wonder at the green), and her willingness to act to help others.  

Her journey through The Force Awakens is not only our discovery of Rey but Rey's discovery of herself.  She is an invisible girl who becomes seen.  

One could argue this is her role both in the film and for the audience.  Female representation on screen has never felt so pronounced.  At time where images of women still fall into boring and limiting roles as the girlfriend, wife, mother, or sex object, here is a woman who is none of those things.  

As Luke Skywalker's lightsaber leaps into her hands the power she possesses becomes more than just that of Jedi or warrior.  She is the chosen one, passing by Kylo Ren who thought he had all but beaten his master, earning the right to this lightsaber.  There is delectable glee in watching a mediocre white man be shown up by a remarkable woman. I mean he’s been studying and practicing his powers for years and here she arrives, learns the words “the Force,” and manages to hold her own against him in a fight.  I’d argue this is light side over dark side working rather than that Mary Sue bullshit people seemed to get all up in arms about.  But I was ready to leap from my seat as she swung that lightsaber.   

I've been an addict to chosen girls all along. Quickly finding myself on the Buffy The Vampire Slayer bandwagon back in the 90's and devouring Philip Pullman's prose when he introduced the small girl who needed to save the world in his series, His Dark Materials.  I lost a little faith in this path with Twilight and The Hunger Games--with female characters who never felt self-possessed to me (to be fair I only saw one Twilight movie and only read one Hunger Games book before giving up on those frustrating heroines).  Though I suspect the success of those series at the box office paved the way for Rey.  

And if those women spoke to you, great.  But for me I was waiting for Rey.  She takes action.  She rescues BB8 and fights to protect him.  (Is he a him?  Why gender a droid and yet here I am doing just that).  She commits to BB8’s mission at her own personal sacrifice.  She is a girl who is publicly appreciated for her quick thinking, technical know-how, and repair skills with the Millennium Falcon by an aging, older gentleman (who miraculously does not hit on her). She is celebrated openly by her peer for her piloting and flying maneuvers.  She breaks out of her captivity with the First Order on her own merit (with a little help from the “Force”).  And her “rescue” comes in the Pretty Women vein of “and I rescued him right back...”.  But at no point is she glanced over by the camera with lasciviousness.  

When Finn first sees her, maybe he sees a pretty girl in distress (malegazeapalooza) but in a moment he sees her as a woman who can fight off multiple assailants all on her own.   The joke of him taking her hand is that she does not actually need his help.  He needs hers.  It’s a moment that resonates for women dealing with a lifetime of mansplaining.  We laugh at his bone-headed assumption.  We’re not laughing at her.

She grieves with Princess Leia over the loss of someone they cared about but it's not two gals gabbing about a cute boy they both are checking out.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  But for the longest time it feels like that's all we've been given.  And I love a little Peeta-Gale love triangle as much as the next person.  But when that's ALL you get. Over and over.  And you can never see women be anything but a pawn in men's can get tired of that male gaze pretty damn fast.  

And The Force Awakens is not devoid of the male gaze.  But god damn it feels like a shift. Even an incremental one.  Until I had met Rey, I think I had given up hope that in my lifetime I would see this change take hold.  I witness sexism every day in my life.  I chafe at people proclaiming feminist intentions in work that still for me feels so entrenched in using the negative stereotypes it’s hard to see them transcend them (Ex Machina I’m looking at you).  That a major motion picture could put the story in the hands of a female character in this way, feels liberating--like a massive rainstorm after agonizing drought.

But mostly, I feel like I know Rey.  In my bones.  Her struggles are ones I recognize and relate to.  Yes, I’m Tumbling the shit out of photos of Oscar Isaac and John Boyega because they’re super-cute and their onscreen romance of sorts is delightful. But I’m crying in the movie over Rey.  When she is powerful I feel more so.  And it has been a long time since I felt that kinship.