How? How? Why? Why? Why?
Seattle Repertory Theatre
Through April 19.
In 2001, Minnesota-based storyteller Kevin Kling was supposed to
perform his new monologue—Baseball, Dogs and
Motorcycles—at the Seattle Rep. Three weeks before his
flight to Seattle, he crashed his motorcycle and broke his body. The
wreck rearranged his teeth, permanently yanked his nerves out of his
left arm, and launched him into a coma.
Six years and several surgeries later, Kling has finally brought his
show about baseball, dogs, and motorcycles—and now, death and
disability—to the Seattle Rep. Despite its existentially gloomy
title, How? How? Why? Why? Why? never treads too far down the
thorny path of despair. Even with his new disabilities, Kling remains
an unflagging ambassador for Minnesotans as portrayed on National
Public Radio—good-natured, long-suffering, self-effacing
people.
Kling must tire of comparisons to Garrison Keillor, but they can’t
be helped. He’s a
Minnesotan and NPR contributor who talks about
severe winters and eccentric farmers, and begins one story with: “I
remember when I learned about love. It was Miss Jensen’s fifth-grade
class.” Throw in his pretty coperformer in the red housedress who plays
Loretta Lynn songs on her accordion and it looks like he’s actively
courting the comparisons.
Kling is a grinning, folksy host, but he occasionally pulls back the
curtain and lets us peek at the frustration and anger of the last six
years, by sympathizing with homicidal hunchback Richard III and daring
a bit of gallows humor: “You might have a disability if you turn to
your lover and say: ‘Hey, that feels really good—is that your arm
or mine?'” But How? How? Why? Why? Why? is mostly an evening
of sweet little stories about disreputable uncles, mischievous older
brothers, and first loves. Which, all things considered, is just fine.
BRENDAN KILEY
Legends in Their Own Minds:
The Habit Strikes Back
The Habit at Rendezvous
Through March 29.
I guess I expected sketch comedy from Legends in Their Own
Minds, seeing as it was a reunion performance of erstwhile sketch
comedy troupe the Habit. But nope. Instead, Legends is
erstwhile sketch comedy performers telling stories—and I don’t
mean coordinated, tight, thematically knit monologues. Just stories.
Stories that would be funnier if you knew (or cared about) the people
involved.
Still, it’s hard not to be drunk and happy at the Rendezvous. Mara
Siciliano told a toe-clenching tragedy of unrequited teenage love. And
I particularly liked David Swidler’s account of painting Garfield High
School’s smokestack, back in the pregentrification, preremodel days,
when the building was still an asbestos sandwich held together with
bits of string and Quincy Jones’s ghost. “Here I am hiding from the
police in a bush after running through the Central District,” he said.
“Finally, white teenagers have skirted the law.”
Then came a tale by one Mr. Mark Siano. Mark Siano does not know it,
but we are in a fight. Last October, I wrote a review of his Super
Soft Rock Spectacular, in which I quoted the funniest line: “I can
see most of you have at least two ears and a heart, so you’re gonna
love some Phil Collins.” Ha ha. Funny enough. Then, not a week later, I
got around to watching 30 Rock on DVD, only to hear a slightly
funnier version of that line from the lips of Alec Baldwin! Thievery!
Unabashed thievery!
I was willing to give Siano another chance. His story, fairly
amusing, was about youthful kleptomania, a Wesley
Snipes–lookin’ security guard, and thinking, “You never,
ever, ever follow Wesley Snipes to a second location.” I’m sorry, what?
I can’t hear you over my brain exploding. Replace “Wesley Snipes” with
“hippie” and you’ve got ANOTHER Alec Baldwin 30 Rock rip-off!
“And from that moment,” Siano finished, “I never stole again.” Um,
yeah. Except for ALL OF ALEC BALDWIN’S JOKES. This blood feud is
fucking on. LINDY WEST
The Miser
Seattle Shakespeare Company
Through April 6.
All that matters in this adaptation of The Miser is the
production of laughter. The actors wring comedy out of Molière’s
17th-century farce, falling on their faces, running into walls, yelling
at the audience—anything to break normal breathing rhythms into
laughing fits. Recall the movie Monsters, Inc., in which scary
creatures travel to human bedrooms to generate the energy that powers
Monsteropolis: the screams of frightened children. Something similar is
at work in this performance of The Miser, except it’s laughter
that electrifies Molièropolis.
The man who plays the miser, Todd Jefferson Moore, breaks out of his
character, out of the script, out of the historical context to comment
on current affairs—the crash of the housing market, the strange
habits of Mayor Nickels, and the absurdity of the Bush administration’s
policy on torture. (The latter comment almost received a standing
ovation on the rainy Saturday afternoon when I watched the play.) But
this mixing of the past and the present works. Why? Because it mocks a
play that is itself all about mockery—mockery of marriage, of
romance, of the rich and the poor, and, most importantly, mockery of
theatrical conventions. If you are ticklish, if you are easily amused,
if you are the sort who erupts before a joke is completed, this
performance has your name written all over it. You will laugh for days.
You will laugh like nobody’s business. Everyone will see your gums in
the dark. CHARLES MUDEDE
