Swimming in the Shallows
Washington Ensemble Theatre at the Little Theatre
Through March 6.
A man, a shark, an aquarium… gay dance party! The gleeful man-on-shark love story, which sets the tone for the rest of Swimming in the Shallows, relies on a sexual perversion only Rick Santorum—or a Dadaist—could think up. But the rest of us can still find it hysterical.
Nick (Marc Kenison) is the gay guy; The Shark (Michael Place, in a sharp suit and dorsal fin) is the shark. After a long string of unsatisfying one-night stands, Nick fixes his lovelorn gaze upon the mako male at the aquarium where his friend Donna (Rhonda J. Soikowski, awesome) works. Once the shark shakes some of his own bad habits (like mindlessly repeating the word “swim” and the phrase “WATCH OUT FOR THE GLASS!”), man and shark dance, make out, and attend social gatherings. Meanwhile, Donna attempts to quit smoking so her girlfriend, Carla Carla (Elise Hunt), will agree to marry her. And Carla Carla’s abstracted friend Barb (Alexandra Tavares), who’s going through a monk-inspired midlife crisis, tries to get rid of her husband and all but eight of her possessions.
Director Katjana Vadeboncoeur (Fission) nails playwright Adam Bock’s one-liner comedy, and the physical gags are spot-on. The unveiling of the shark? Perfect. The line about the Hummel-figurine Heidi yodeling “on her little tiny Alp”? Hilarious. The slow-mo wedding-dress dream sequence? Coffee shot out of my nose. Swimming in the Shallows is populist entertainment, as bright and shiny as theater can be. This production deemphasizes the play’s arguments against consumerism (the decision to cast a young actor as the middle-aged Barb makes it hard to take her entirely seriously) and gives the company’s screwball skills free and glorious rein. ANNIE WAGNER
Last Year’s Kisses
Theatre Off Jackson
Through March 4.
How wretched is this? I went to review Last Year’s Kisses, Sarah Rudinoff’s cabaret act wherein the “pint-sized diva” sings songs of love and longing by Irving Berlin, Mia Zapata, and others. After the show, an odd set of circumstances had me catching a ride in Rudinoff’s car to Lo_Fi, where she and I and some friends we have in common all danced to old soul music. And now I’m supposed to review her show? What kind of critic am I?
Ethically corrupt, yes, but also traitorously honest. To be frank: Kisses is not so great, despite the opening-night standing ovation. People like to hear funny banter and sweet songs—they like cabarets—but I would have preferred to watch Rudinoff playing a character, even a character of herself (like she’s done so well in Go There and The Last State). Kisses is supposed to be a rumination on love, but the observations the show offers are mostly trite: Love hurts. Love is exciting. Love makes fools of us all. This isn’t to say that Rudinoff’s all-lady band isn’t rockin’ (it is). Or that her voice and charisma couldn’t power a battleship (it could). Or that there isn’t some entertaining patter (like her embarrassing story about making the cover of Seattle Weekly‘s Valentine’s Day issue). There are a couple of stirring songs (her “I Got You, Babe” was particularly poignant as a solo à la Etta James). But this is not Rudinoff at her best. BRENDAN KILEY
The Cowgirl Play
Macha Monkey at Freehold Theatre
Through March 11.
Rose McNaughton (Melissa Brown), the high-collared and high-strung heroine of Macha Monkey’s The Cowgirl Play, is headed to California to become a schoolteacher. Or so she thinks. In reality, the silly gal has accidentally sold herself into prostitution via an unscrupulous sheriff (Kate Jaeger), so she steals his horse, shoots him in the kneecap, and becomes “the Filly from Philly,” fugitive and reluctant outlaw. Along with some cute shadow puppets, a Greek chorus of cowgirls (Jaeger, Shawnmarie Yates, and Desiree Prewitt singing original songs in excellent three-part harmony), and the bumbling “Kentucky Kid” (Ben Laurance), Rose makes her way to Idaho and liberation.
The Cowgirl Play is nothing groundbreaking, but it’s totally fun to watch. Kudos to Rick Miller, Cowgirl‘s composer, for his surprisingly catchy bluegrass soundtrack. And double kudos to Jaeger—easily the play’s best singer—who’s funny, sexy, and commanding in her bevy of roles.
I just wish that Macha Monkey didn’t insist on labeling Cowgirl a feminist play. The nurturing whore, the repressed romantic—these archetypes are neither new nor particularly empowering. And though the women come out on top (Rose fires a gun! Rose rides a horse! Rose wears a fake mustache!), in a world where every man is a drunken buffoon, their victory is patronizing and hollow. Better to just leave it as a rom-com.
My only other gripe is with the evil sheriff and his horse, Buttercup. The chorus gives it to us straight: “He and his horse had a very special relationship.” Oh, how devilishly witty. I know I’m still smarting from Cannibal! The Musical, but can there be no Western-themed theater without horsefucking? Can we get a new go-to joke, please? The Old West had buffalo too, you know. Yee-haw. LINDY WEST
