Strike Anywhere Productions
Through March 22.Much has been made of Sam Hamill's poetic protest against the impending war in Iraq--in times of crisis, how should art and politics inform one another, and what is the cost to each when they do?
Enter Strike Anywhere's production of Tony Kushner's A Bright Room Called Day, a Dubya-era staging of a Reagan-era play. It juxtaposes the rantings of a 1980s paranoiac with the moral meltdown of a pack of Berlin lefties in the face of Hitler's dizzying rise to power.
The script, and subsequently the production, is riddled with flaws. It is of uneven quality, sometimes screechy, sometimes saccharine. It is long, and requires an at least rudimentary understanding of Marx, Freud, and pre-Nazi German history to fully enjoy its many character nooks and referential crannies. But none of that matters.
Day manages to be a shockingly brilliant piece of work whose power and beauty make the odd stitches and visible seams totally insignificant. This is why God gave us small theater. Bold, funny, and gutsy, Day's intimate urgency would be impossible to produce in a ritzier venue. It had me choking back tears several times--something this critic hasn't done in a theater for a very long time.
Ditching liberal sanctimony, Day agonizes over the moral ambiguity and absurd futility of everyday people wrestling with choice in a morally fucked-up universe. How does one do the right thing when some kind of virtuous action is imperative, but every act is compromised by coercive power structures and petty self-interest? How does one live through critical moments in history well?
It doesn't matter how you judge Hamill or whether you think Dubya or Saddam more closely approximates Hitler. Because Day refuses to answer its questions, but poses them with more grace and sensitivity than any pundit can muster, its art and politics meet in a surprisingly beautiful symbiosis. BRENDAN KILEY
The Millionairess
Steeplechase Productions
Through March 29.I'm a big fan of the Liberty Deli's quirky take on dinner theater. The food is pretty good and whatever it lacks in subtlety it more than makes up for in quantity. The theater's pretty good too, and whatever it lacks in subtlety it more than makes up for in proximity. It's thrillingly weird eating corned beef and coleslaw three inches away from a stage full of actors working up a salty lather. Which is why I'm sad to report that their latest production of George Bernard Shaw's socialist farce is ill-prepared and overwrought.
The flood of brittle and witty language in this drawing-room parable about greed and class struggle requires a cast blessed with the nimblest of tongues or it bogs down into polemic melodrama. Unfortunately, due to some prominent and egregious miscasting, most of the actors hold their heads proudly above water as the rest appear to be performing The Perils of Pauline while their mouths slowly fill up with peanut butter. A couple of these English accents are so very, very bizarre that they veer into Waiting for Guffman-land and there's so much stomping, hair tossing, and gesticulating on the tiny stage that only the lack of sequined leotards manages to keep the cast from being mistaken for a drill team of hysterical high-school girls.
Amazingly, the entire goings on are nearly salvaged by two fantastically inspired performances. Karen Heaven as a middle-class mistress is as crisp and luscious as a cold pear. As a simpering, ravenous dandy gone to seed, Christopher Shine stuffs his pants with suet, gamely glues on his toupee, and veers off into loony land with grotesque and hilarious results. I'm tempted to say it is worth it to come for these talented troupers alone. But at $30 a ticket (or $15 for the show with no food), alas, it is not. TAMARA PARIS
Inkblot
Consolidated Works
One night only, and you missed it.Let's start at the beginning. Last December, this guy calling himself "Inkblot" bought a rave review from yours truly from the Strangercrombie & Felch Holiday Gift Catalog auction (proceeds go to charity, fuck you). Naturally, I was concerned that my (almost) almost incorruptible integrity would be compromised--i.e., the guy could really suck donkey dick and I'd have to lie my little red keister off.
But I can go to my grave an honest man. Why? Because I can rave about Inkblot with a clear conscience. Inkblot's self-titled, one-man show was truly, without exaggeration, an experience I will never forget. The show promised to "plumb the depths of society's ills, mankind's deepest fears, and the raw intensity of the human experience." I don't know if it was the depths of human experience, but Inkblot sure plumbed something raw: This intense, weird, and loosely structured show dragged me kicking through sympathy then hilarity then fear.
Dressed in late-'70s Elvis garb, pacing back and forth, Inkblot shared the twisted story of his life, from birth till just now, imparting the hard-won wisdom he'd gathered along the way. He raged and ranted and kicked the shit out of two blow-up sex dolls before pretending to blast his face off with a shotgun and lying "dead" on the stage for the duration of the audience's exit. Truly, Inkblot is one show--and one person--that has truly affected me forever. ADRIAN RYAN
Eds. Note--Following his performance, Inkblot requested that, instead of his purchased rave, he be given a regular old review. "To have a review written that's not really accurate doesn't feel right," said Inkblot. "So tell Adrian to have at it." Inkblot's request was passed on to Adrian Ryan, with results below.
I mentioned that I would remember Inkblot and his show forever--but not necessarily in the most pleasant of ways. Pulling off a successful one-man show requires... more. A lot more. More responsibility to one's audience, for a start. It seems obvious, but presenting a long rant about one's deeply personal problems and psychological quirks is appropriate for one's psychiatrist, but never, ever for one's audience. Standing up and talking about yourself doesn't equal good theater. The audience feels first uncomfortable, then trapped, then resentful. I see it all the time.
Then there are all those pesky little technical aspects. In his show, Inkblot made a couple statements denouncing education and studying--one should just go out and be whatever one aspires to be. But Inkblot, trust me, you need to learn a thing or two. Like blocking. Pacing is not good blocking. And structure. There was none. And small, seemingly obvious things, like never, ever force an audience to guess one's age. Or make vague and scary jokes about having bombs secretly taped to one's chest to blow up the audience. That went over like a lead feather attached to the bottom of a lead balloon with lead glue.
But I'm not suggesting Inkblot give up the stage. I recommend working with some established local theater companies and clocking some serious time on the boards--explore standup--before attempting another solo offering. Being a successful performing artist just isn't as easy as it looks. ADRIAN RYAN
