CULTUREPHILE: PORTLAND ARTS

Review: Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Christmas Carol

Artists Rep replaces Scrooge with Sherlock.
But are they forcing a fit?

Posted by: Anne Adams on Nov 22, 2011 at 12:00PM 0 Comments

In Artist Rep’s rendition, Sherlock = Scrooge and Watson = Bob Cratchit.

This time last year, when A Christmas Story bumped A Christmas Carol from the PCS main stage, Culturephile ran through the relative merits of Scrooge v Ralphie. Now, Artists Repertory Theatre offers another substitute for Scrooge: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. In Seattle playwright John Longenbaugh’s rewrite of the Dickens classic, the great London detective paces his smoke-stained flat in his elegant brocade dressing-gown, then gets a moral come-uppance from the requisite three ghosts and a host. The stand-in for Bob Cratchit is Doctor Watson, and as for Tiny Tim: there isn’t one.

This kind of creative choice, intended to “shake up” cliches, also runs the risk of messing up tried-and-true classics. Ironically, while Artists Rep and Stumptown Stages opt for adventurous Carol variations and PCS continues to favor Midwest moppet Ralphie, 2011 would’ve been a prime season to stage the original Dickens tale. The current “Occupy” climate of rich-poor polarity would ring all too true for modern Americans, and Scrooge’s “Are there no prisons? No workhouses?” talking points could be pulled straight from the teleprompters at FOX News. Would that the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come had whispered in the ears of these theater companies before they opted to flip the script.

Watching Case, one can’t help but revisit what makes Carol tick: Scrooge emerges as an obvious villain who’s clearly at fault for current and future ills in his community. As we watch him review his own fairly universal nostalgias and regrets, we see him as an increasingly contrite and sympathetic pilgrim. We learn that if Scrooge weren’t a greedy workaholic, he wouldn’t have broken Belle’s heart. He’d have matured as a married (implied, happier) man. And if he changes his ways even now, he can still save Bob Cratchit’s faith and Tiny Tim’s life. We, the audience, are unanimous about Scrooge’s next moral step, and tremendously relieved to watch him take it.

But with Holmes in the hot seat, the ideology is far murkier. Longenbaugh’s admittedly crisp and elegant dialogue nevertheless sends Scrooge up on some nebulous, conflicting, and petty claims.

SHERLOCK’S “SINS”
~He’s too analytical to be sympathetic, stating, “People are puzzles and problems, nothing more,” and “Imagination and fancy can cause more damage than a match in a munitions store.” The ghost of Christmas present censures him thus: “There is nothing so dull as a man who only traffics in sharp observations.” No matter that this trait is what enables his famous deductions.
~He’s quit his usual detective practice to conduct chemistry experiments. Since when was changing one’s course of study considered dereliction? (Nobody tell James Franco .)
~He refuses to help exonerate a local clerk who has been falsely accused of theft, because another detective is already working the man’s case. Monsterous!
~He insults Christmas, calling it “the thoughtless exchanging the unnecessary.” Okay, that’s pessimistic. Still….
~He faked his own death and went globetrotting for three years, which we are made to understand was—at the very least—a rude and dishonest thing to do to his partner Watson. That said, Watson doesn’t seem to have suffered too keenly, and Holmes likely used his travels to gather new scientific insight.

Where Scrooge was a heartless oligarch willing to let Tiny Tim die crippled in the streets, Holmes is merely an antisocial-yet-effective intellectual who leads an austere and private life, holing up to solve the conundrums of chemistry. Is that really bad enough to spark supernatural intervention?

If their rap-sheets bore equal shame, then Sherlock would work fine as a Scrooge stand-in. As it is, the comparison feels a bit forced. Where modern Scrooges abound in the form of corrupt corporate CEO’s, who would qualify as modern Holmeses? Drug researchers? CSI’s? Doctor Gregory House? Characters who, despite slightly blunted empathy centers, are nevertheless on a valuable path of inquiry for a greater social good. Are their actions flat-out wrong? It’s a hard case to make. Further credibility is lost for Longenbaugh as we watch a character who is known to demand hard evidence abruptly swap his skepticism for an unquestioning acceptance of the ghostly apparitions in his midst.

Those who can coast through the holes in the play’s premise will be regaled by exquisitely acted characters, witty writing, a lush Victorian aesthetic, and even a steam-punk-style train car. This audience will no doubt resent the above analysis as much as Holmes’ cheerless clinking of beakers. They might even haunt Culturephile with admonitions, not realizing that the critique comes from an unfulfilled wish to be emotionally moved by a narrative that doesn’t fully deliver. For them, director Jon Kretzu’s notes summarize the more general grounds on which the play can be appreciated: “Are there any two fictional characters more real in our hearts and minds than Sherlock Holmes and Ebenezer Scrooge? We offer up this theatrical holiday greeting to you with a wish to celebrate the Sherlock and Scrooge that live within us all.”

In other words, it’s rude to overanalyze a heartfelt holiday gesture. Better to arrange these two beloved English figures between the candles on your mantle and admire them with a misty eye.

Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Christmas Carol continues through December 24. For more about Portland arts events, visit PoMo’s Arts & Entertainment Calendar, stream content with an RSS feed, or sign up for our weekly On The Town Newsletter!

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Tags: Theater, Review

Review: Mr. Darcy Dreamboat

Posted by: Aaron Scott and Anne Adams on Nov 17, 2011 at 02:00AM 3 Comments

Camille Cettina’s cuteness doesn’t gloss over unfulfilled hungers.

Camille Cettina can certainly make 80 minutes fly by. With her sprightly storytelling, impish impersonations, literal leaps and bounds around the room, and coy curlings-up in an armchair, the self-confessed “avid reader” reveals a rich private fantasy world, peopled by various book characters. She re-enacts a two-dimensional tale from her first literary love, Nancy Drew, with childlike exuberance, hopping back and forth and changing voices to play all the parts. But as the scene tapers to a satisfying conclusion, Cettina holds up the book and reproaches it: “I just can’t live in your black-and-white world, where all swarthy men are bad and all girls in a simple cotton dress are victims. I feel like we’re growing apart.”

As she abandons Nancy in search of titillating new territories (VC Andrews’ tween soap-opera smut, a full-on romance novel that teaches her the word “libido,”) we understand that we’re about to watch a bookworm blossom into a butterfly.

She soon finds the perfect food for her growing intellectual and romantic curiosity: the Jane Austen canon (specifically Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre). Both the play’s namesake, Mr. Darcy, and Jane ’s antihero, Mr. Rochester, imbue the young reader with unrealistic romantic expectations: Darcy, who first seems distant, turns out to be preternaturally noble and devoted. Rochester, who hides his ex wife in the attic, is also eventually revealed to be noble, tortured, and capable of boundless loyalty and love. While she winks at the far-fetched scenarios, she also admits to absorbing them.

“Books get a little bit dangerous,” she confides. “You imagine a Darcy finding you.”

Hinting that her Austen-inspired desires are often dashed on the hard realities of life’s limitations, Cettina assumes a more troubled muse, Salinger’s Franny from Franny & Zooey. Staring spacily from her now comfortless armchair, she gradually unravels into a nervous breakdown. (Or Franny does. Right?) This is the part of the play where, as they’d say in hiphop, “sh* gets real.” Slumping to the floor, hoarsely murmuring the mantra, “Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me,” Cettina plunges us past whimsy into the disillusionment that idealists know all too well. Mr. Darcy isn’t coming to save you, because Mr. Darcy doesn’t exist.

Climbing the side of her towering bookshelf like King Kong on a skyscraper, knocking books around in a hail of righteous rage, Cettina destroys part of her universe—then gradually retracts her freak flag back into a more comforting nook of cuteness. Closing with a monologue about her love of reading that essentially echoes her intro, Cettina effectively book-ends her performance in pro-literacy platitudes. But as with a book, it’s the stuff in the middle that matters—the shifting and fragile material that curls and crumples between the sturdy covers. In this show, and the persona of Camille herself, that ephemera remains “extremely loud and incredibly close.”

Pushleg Theater’s Mr. Darcy Dreamboat continues at Interstate Firehouse Cultural Center through November 20. For more about Portland arts events, visit PoMo’s Arts & Entertainment Calendar, stream content with an RSS feed, or sign up for our weekly On The Town Newsletter!

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Tags: Theater, Review

Glengarry with Gals?

David Mamet’s Glengarry, Glen Ross has been restaged to include women. Do they sell it?

Posted by: Anne Adams on Nov 10, 2011 at 03:20PM 0 Comments

Stunning image of Grace Carter by Holly Andres.

Here at the PM offices, mere feet from the cubicle where Culturephile is honed into relative readability, there is a chart. On the chart are large red drawings of partially-filled thermometers, which represent—you guessed it—staff sales goals. Three out of four of the names on this chart are women’s, and all of the corresponding thermometers are, at the time of this post, relatively full. The old notion that sales is a man’s game, is clearly passé.

It was a reasonable instinct, then, that drove director Tamara Carroll to split Defunkt Theater’s staging of Mamet classic Glengarry, Glen Ross evenly between genders, laying the juiciest plum roles (Levene and Roma) on the sales ladies. “We hope that the context draws attention to and questions the notion that power and masculinity are synonymous,” she writes in the playbill. “Are power and aggression exclusively masculine traits? How are men and women perceived differently saying the same words? Do women need to behave like men to succeed in predominately male fields?” Relevant questions all, though not earth-shattering for many workplace women (including this reviewer) who’ve already given this topic tons of thought. Perhaps it was a bigger eye-opener for male audience members, or a way for the small company’s cast to stretch their own acting muscles.

To that end, Roma (Grace Carter) rules the stage, striding around in a fitted feminine pantsuit and alternating between brash bravado and soft, seductive cajoling. Since Defunkt zealously adheres to the original Mamet script, Carter has to sell lines like,“Who ever told you that you could work with men?”—and she does so remarkably well. Less convincing at the performance Culturephile saw, was her counterpart Lori Sue Hoffman in the role of Shelley Levene. Hoffman raced through many of her lines and swore with a jarringly unnatural inflection. Ultimately, it was hard to tell where the nervousness of the character overlapped with that of the actor. Hopefully as the run wears on, her anxiety will subside and Hoffman will own the role rather than vice versa. Overall, the implications of the womens’ gender in the workplace might have been pushed a little farther through bolder blocking. Roma’s seductive advantage over her male client could have been demonstrated more overtly, or Hoffman could have used more movement to play up the “act like a man to make it” motto.

Defunkt’s choice to honor Mamet’s original script is arguably more controversial than the inclusion of women; in fact, those most familiar with Glengarry in its movie or Broadway form should brace for a couple of surprises.

In the 2005 Broadway rewrite of the play he penned in ‘84, Mamet removed ethnic slurs against East Indian Americans from the script. Oddly enough, Defunkt reinstates them. To this reviewer, however, this seems a defensible choice. Though the words aren’t right, they help show what’s wrong with the characters. Watching the salesmen make bigoted remarks, the audience quickly understands that this is a play without protagonists. When the salesmen quickly judge a “Patel” lead as a dud, we see how their need to make numbers and spot trends has the nasty side effect of indulging their prejudices and de-humanizing their customer base. It also illustrates an all too familiar behind-closed-doors office culture of mutually insured destruction, where all parties engage in “HR violations” with the tacit understanding that said violations don’t leave the room. This type of loose talk may not be easy to listen to, but it’s valid to portray.

But now, the worst news for film fans: There is no “Alec Baldwin” character (Blake) in the original Mamet script, and hence none in the Defunkt production! While not original, Blake’s lines have, for many, become indispensable to the story. On a par with “You can’t handle the truth” from A Few Good Men, or “You complete me” from Jerry Mcguire, the unforgettable Blake zingers have etched themselves firmly into mass memory: “My watch costs more than your car!” “My name is ‘F—- You, that’s my name.” “First prize is a Cadillac El Dorado, second prize is a set of steak knives, and third prize is you’re fired!”

In a Glengarry staging where none of this gets said, the missing lines ring louder than the spoken ones. To borrow a phrase from Blake, it takes brass balls to exclude this character.

The play on the whole had an unfinished feel. The intermission crept up unannounced, and the ending gradually dawned with no curtain call. That might’ve been attributable to the fact that in the second act there was no curtain; still, when the lights came up for the final time to no final applause, and no bowing actors, there was a sense that the work was left incomplete. Whether you’re a man or a woman, there are rules in this business, and one of them is, “Always be closing.” Hopefully the remainder of the run will meet its targets.

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Tags: Theater, Review

Oklahoma! Closing Thoughts

A look back on the discussion that the all-black production inspired, and an apt comparison to another current production: Gem of the Ocean.

Posted by: Anne Adams on Nov 04, 2011 at 10:30PM 0 Comments

It’s been just over a month since Portland Mercury’s review of Portland Center Stage’s all-black Oklahoma! sent the winds of critical discussion sweeping down the plane. Noah Dunham contended that with an all-black* cast, it would have been more historically appropriate to see Jim Crow-era discrimination play out onstage. The lack of racial tension, Dunham claimed, caused PCS to miss its presumed target of “a new Oklahoma!.”

The play’s lead actor, Rodney Hicks, rebutted Dunham on the PCS blog. He justified the play’s historical premise by pointing out that a few all-black cowboy communities flourished at the turn of the century without too much outside intrusion. He also added that as a black actor, he relished the opportunity to play a role that wasn’t specifically written for his race and simply portrayed “who we all are as Americans.”

On behalf of Portland Monthly, I shared the following thoughts with the PCS messageboard :

It’s a relief when black actors are afforded the chance to portray the normal gamut of universal human emotion, outside the context of a struggle against racially-motivated oppression. While hammering away at that topic has brought gradual enlightenment, empathy and change, it’s also created an unfortunate Pavlovian reaction in many theater audiences: See a black person, brace yourself for racially charged themes. I admit I had that response myself a few months ago, when I caught Broadway’s Mary Poppins, complete with a [newly added] black villain that Ms. Poppins locks in a cage. When a period drama features mixed ethnicities, you naturally weigh the action against your perception of the race/class issues of that time and place. So in that context, the actor’s race “stuck out” to me, and the implications of empire and exploitation bothered me. Similarly if Oklahoma were a mixed-race production, audiences should be put on guard for era-appropriate Southern tension. But this production sounds like a good chance for audiences to shrug off their preconceptions and embrace the obvious: Black actors are just actors. Black people are just people. Why SHOULD a black Oklahoma be “a new Oklahoma!?” No good reason.

Interestingly enough, amid this dustbowl of discourse, Portland Playhouse debuted its own all-black* production, August Wilson’s Gem of the Ocean , which reinforced the aforementioned audience tendency to equate black acting with the portrayal of the African American struggle. As slavery and racial persecution colored every line of dialogue, a couple of the cast members visibly suppressed their sophisticated modern style under a hangdog mantle of “slave” mannerism. They carried it off, no doubt moving their audience to a better understanding of a torrid time—but they also labored under the burden of black history throughout, and it’s easy to see why a talented performer wouldn’t want to be saddled with that responsibility every time.

Acting is one of the only professions where demographic discrimination is considered an acceptable occupational hazard. You simply can’t get the role, if you look wrong for the part. And all too often, race has been considered a casting deal-breaker, causing black actors to joke about resumés rife with criminal and slave roles. The recent production of Oklahoma! gave some great actors (singers/dancers…in Broadway parlance, “triple threats”) an all-too-rare chance to shine without enslavement to a heavy political subtext. What a beautiful morning.

That said, the fact that this discussion has (ahem) overshadowed appreciation for Oklahoma! ‘s production values and individual performances, suggests that Portland isn’t yet as progressive as we pretend.

*Each production included one non-black actor.

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Tags: Theater, Review

The Real Americans

Dan Hoyle has a benevolent take on his conflicted countrymen.

Posted by: Rebecca Waits on Oct 26, 2011 at 10:00AM 0 Comments

“Why is there no federal agency to combat ignorance? Why am I a stranger in my own land?” begs Dan Hoyle during an unassuming stripped-down acoustic guitar solo during PCS ’s The Real Americans. The only song in an hour and a half of constantly shifting monologues, “Why?” is a ballad about the postmodern alienation that lays the groundwork for one man’s quest to discover “The Real America."

In his travels from Mexico to Thailand to Africa, Dan Hoyle has met a lot of real characters—and in the tradition of shows like Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues, Bust, and recent TBA offering The Method Gun, his one-man show is composed of a series of impersonations of the people he’s encountered. This performance style, which Hoyle dubs “journalistic theater" is essentially documentary film translated to the stage, and like most good documentaries, The Real Americans puts a human face on a universal concern: America’s political polarization.

In the wake of two wildly successful prior solo shows about the world abroad (Circumnavigator and Tings Dey Happen), Hoyle returned to his native San Francisco in a funk, feeling trapped, bored and alienated by the contented indifference of the “latté liberal bubble.” Between this production and Third Rail Rep’s concurrent The Pain and the Itch, such angst is emerging as a popular theme. In a stressful culture of war, racism, and ever-impending economic collapse, it’s still too easy to tune everything out and snuggle into a cocoon of creature comforts and entertainment diversions. Hoyle’s solution? Buy a van and plan a three-month expedition into The Great Beyond, The Heartland, this reviewer’s own old bittersweet home: The Midwest.

In a poignant, refreshing, and downright impressive journey, Hoyle lets his audience vicariously experience his many travels. Sleeping in yards, eating barbecue, and getting prayed for in Texas. Chatting up Vietnam vets at gun shows and Iraq vets at home. In one scene, he’s a fast-talking New York Dominican at a gas stop, in the next, a memorably incomprehensible old mechanic in Louisville, Kentucky (mercifully subtitled for the audience’s comprehension). These disorienting shifts are executed seamlessly with gorgeously minimalistic lighting design—stark silhouettes of an Alabama swamp, an urban street corner, a starry night—and vivid soundscapes that capture everything from the crickets of a humid Southern twilight to the chaotic sprawl of a Texas Fourth of July.

As masterful at mimicry as he apparently is at meeting new people, Hoyle introduces us to some unique, heartwrenching, and hilarious characters. While his experiences were not tape recorded, and Hoyle admits he “drew from” everyone he met—some of the characters directly portray real-life people (like the Crow family in Texas). To his credit, Hoyle steers clear of the tempting traps of sketch comedy and pity party, even when portraying downtrodden good ol’ boys and outwardly racist Alabamians. Instead, he delivers a poignant love letter to the complicated nature of a polarized nation of Americans who are—mostly—good at heart.

For more about Portland arts events, visit PoMo’s Arts & Entertainment Calendar, stream content with an RSS feed, or sign up for our weekly On The Town Newsletter!

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Tags: Theater, Review, PCS

Review: The Pain and the Itch

Third Rail Repertory’s Thanksgiving play challenges lip-service liberals to become better listeners.

Posted by: Anne Adams on Oct 24, 2011 at 11:00AM 0 Comments

Photo: Owen Carey

The Oregonian calls The Pain and the Itch “enough food for thought…to fill you up and send you home with days worth of leftovers.” The Portland Mercury hinges the story’s hit-or-miss potential on the socioeconomic status of the viewer, calling it “a thrilling slap in the face to those who see themselves reflected onstage,” but “for those of us who don’t…two hours of listening to a—holes shout at each other.” But perhaps Russian immigrant Kalina (Amy Beth Frankel) says it best: “You’ve got to put these things in perceptive.”

As they prepare for a Thanksgiving feast in a high-priced house, Kalina’s would-be sister-in-law Kelly kvetches about an “abusive” upbringing of “sarcasm and neglect.” Kalina tries to point out that it could be worse; she survived gang-rape in her homeland. Much to the relief of her boyfriend Clay’s stunned relatives, her heartbreaking revelation can be dismissed on a technicality. “Perspective,” Clay corrects, proving he can enunciate better than he can empathize. And that seems to run in the family.

As the play progresses, Kalina’s gaffe proves closer to a thesis: You can’t have perspective, unless you are perceptive—and if you cram your head too far up the free-range turkey that is your own bourgeois comfort zone, then no matter how well-intentioned your politics are, you’ll never grow as a person. The same theme is demonstrated hilariously by dippy matriarch Carol (Jacklyn Maddux), who speaks an uninterrupted blue streak to the family’s Arab guest about—what else—the importance of listening.

From any side of the fence (though not all sides of the sunken-seated Winningstad) you’ll see great acting, but leave with a shuddering case of the creepy-crawlies as every character you try to root for manages to blurt out something appalling. “This play is really [playwright] Bruce Norris’s response to 911,” says Third Rail member Duffy Epstein (who plays the aforementioned surgeon, Cash). “It hints not only at this family’s culpability for evils that are perpetrated ‘in their name,’ but in a larger sense, America’s culpability in world affairs.”

To be fair, both foreign and domestic characters reveal their own ruthlessness—but only the non-Americans admit it. “You are for your family and I am for mine,” states Mr. Hadid (John San Nicolas), the aforementioned visitor that the titular family patronizes and insults through most of the play. “You want your children to have every possible advantage over my children. And I am the same.” Hadid’s plainspoken claim is emphatically denied! No no no! Perish that barbaric thought! And yet, as the story unfolds, we learn that these twisted yuppies have already sacrificed two lives—one feline, and one human—just to preserve their tenuous peace-of-mind. (If pushed farther, who knows what they would do?) Their initial lack of perspective having enabled their brutality, they try in vain to dull their perception of the lingering “pain and itch,” with a heavy dose of Thanksgiving tryptophan.

For more about Portland arts events, visit PoMo’s Arts & Entertainment Calendar, stream content with an RSS feed, or sign up for our weekly On The Town Newsletter!

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Tags: Theater, Review

Review: Gem of the Ocean

Posted by: Anne Adams on Oct 19, 2011 at 06:00AM 0 Comments

Brenda E. Phillips plays the loved and feared Aunt Ester in Portland Playhouse’s Gem.

Set in Pittsburgh, 1904, Gem of the Ocean takes on a hefty burden: the post-slavery shockwaves that racked the African American community just after the civil war. In Alabama, we’re told, angry whites continued to attack and persecute their erstwhile human “property,” while even in northern beacons of brotherhood like Pennsylvania, black and white businessmen alike exploited a vulnerable new work force for cheap labor and huge profits. Needless to say, Ocean is not supposed to be a pleasure cruise, but it does carry a few kernels of hope and faith, and many of its observations (both positive and negative) about the human experience, still ring true today.

Playwright August Wilson has already received his accolades from Pulitzer, so there’s almost no point critiquing this play’s content. It’s historically relevant, emotionally fraught, and pretty well beyond reproof. But Portland Playhouse ‘s production has brought its own flavor to the drama, along with a very talented cast of actors. Because the play is almost 3 hours long, feeling more like a miniseries than a mere episode, there’s plenty of time to savor each player’s performance—to root for the good guys, hate the villain, and grasp the gravity of the societal predicament. Here are your companions on the journey:

Aunt Ester
The show’s obvious star, Brenda E. Phillips embodies “head of household.” The matriarch sets her own unhurried pace, and her words flow forth with calm conviction and the occasional twinkle of charm. A wave of her hand dispatches her helpers to their tasks, so she can focus on speaking profound spiritual truths. “It all will come to stand in the light,” she proclaims, implying that maybe the truth—like her—will take its sweet time.

Citizen Barlow
After seeing Vin Shambry rock last season’s Superior Donuts, Culturephile expected a star performance here. But Shambry doesn’t seem 100% comfortable playing a downtrodden southerner. Maybe the old, alien dialect and blocking that reins in his natural bounciness, buffer the actor from his body and the plot—or distance those of us who remember him in such a different role. Even so, he prevails during his character’s high-pressure moments, sweating and trembling like a haunted man.

Black Mary
As she busies herself with the housework, the aproned Andrea White keeps a slightly distant persona. The script also hints that her character is hard to get to know. But her few outbursts of emotion could be better foreshadowed by more body-language cues during her non-speaking stage time.

Eli
Victor Mack creates a unique character with a wheezing voice and expressively rolling eyes. He’s intentionally a little comical, and believable as Aunt Ester’s helper—but at times his words get lost in his affectation. You might have to strain to catch some of his quips.

Rutherford Selig
As the sole white visitor to Aunt Ester’s household, David Seitz doesn’t get much to say, but he holds his own.

Solly Two Kings
Kevyn Morrow plays a resourceful former underground railroad coordinator and jack-of-all trades who is at turns flirty, mischevious, and stone-cold-dead-serious. Morrow deftly rotates his character to show off many facets, and readily puts a twinkle in Aunt Ester’s eye. Solly, a highly symbolic role, literally “walks softly but carries a big stick” that he refers to as his “bone breaker.” He’s quick to point out God’s inconsistency in the dual suggestion of “smiting enemies” and “turning the other cheek,” but he seems willing to do a little of both.

Caesar Wilks
The self-described “boss man around here,” Kevin Jones plays an exploiter who swoops in to oppress his own people after slavery has stopped. He gives a chilling performance, ranting against “n—s” and Abraham Lincoln. Not only is he despicable, but he really seems to believe he’s right.

While the actors should be lauded, the set design is ripe for reproach: Woodwork, flooring, and backdrop are all distractingly doused in flat teal paint. The few touches of homey brown antiquity that are left alone, only bring the screaming aquamarine further to the fore. Yes, we get that the implication of “ocean” here, but overall this overbearing creative choice makes it harder for an audience to get immersed (pardon the pun) in a historical time and place. Since the World Trade Center is a new venue for the Playhouse, and their usual former church space is being reviewed for re-zoning, we’ll chalk it up to last-minute problem-solving and tuck snarky “keeping it teal” remarks away.

Ultimately, the performances outshine the set design, and this cathartic and challenging drama is another strong show from Portland Playhouse. When the company returns to their old building, they can add a fresh notch to the steeple.

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Tags: Theater, Review

Review: No Man’s Land

William Hurt and his son drink like fish and spar like strangers in this terse Pinter play.

Posted by: Anne Adams on Oct 13, 2011 at 03:00PM 2 Comments

William Hurt’s character, Spooner, temporarily upsets the pecking order before being “frozen out.”
(Left to right: William Hurt, Alex Hurt, Allen Nause, Tim True.)

English society’s preoccupation with their own accents can scarcely be overstated. And it’s no wonder, in a country where regional dialects abound and the monarchy’s pronunciation preference, aka “The Queen’s English,” is the gold standard to which all heads of state and BBC broadcasters comply. How one talks has become such a code for social status, that one dropped consonant could get you a bad table. On the other hand, twisting your tongue just so, curries unwarranted favor. Just ask Eliza Dolittle—or Spooner, William Hurt’s character in Artists Rep’s production of No Man’s Land.

Spooner is a self-described park-loiterer, poet, and “betwixt-twig peeper”—but it sounds so much better when he says it, in his crisp and kingly diction, that the wealthy Hirst (Allen Nause) can’t resist inviting the self-confessed gaddabout into his luxurious parlour for a night cap. Both characters have already drunk their brittle British bones to the brink of extinction, enabling a false camaraderie. While savoring the sound of his own voice and imbibing even more stupefying spirits, Spooner “gabbles on” about the game of cricket (code for sex) and generally puffs and pontificates while Hirst gradually cracks, crawling on the carpet in a glazed-eyed amnesiac fit before being subdued by two man-servants.

The servants, we’re led to understand from their accents, are middle- and lower-class, respectively, and they divide the tasks of looking after their “gentleman,” “p*ss hound” boss, suspending him in a comfortable state of isolation and denial. William Hurt’s son Alex Hurt plays Foster, the middleman and would-be diplomat, while Tim True plays Briggs, the estate’s plain-spoken, ham-handed enforcer. When they see their boss fall into a presumably typical freakout in front of a stranger, the two become tersely defensive. Foster paces with nervous energy, while Briggs remains more ominously contained. But here’s the kick: Neither man has the implicit authority to “step to” Spooner, because he has the fancier accent. (No, seriously. It’s an English thing.)

No Man’s Land is schadenfreude and vouyerism at its finest, as the audience become the “peepers” on an unseemly side of a rich man’s private addiction. But we also understand that no matter how drunk Hirst gets or how hard his servants work, neither party will ever change rank. While giving driving directions, Briggs describes “an intricate one-way system, easy enough to get into, but very hard to get out.” (Hotel California, anyone?). Though it’s hard to watch, this challenging content could scarcely be delivered better. Nause is electric, the Hurts are first-rate, and even simple flourishes of set and lighting are meticulously fitted to the mood. All the aforementioned accents are, as the saying goes, “spot-on,” which is, in itself, no small feat.

Father and son Hurt come off as complete strangers, even as Nause and William Hurt maintain a bristling tension that belies their real-life friendship. Tim True holds his own amongst the all-stars, with realistic gestures and a well-developed character—equal parts physical threat and workaday forbearance. It’s worth noting that Nause outdoes his Oscar-winning contemporary in one department: physicality. William Hurt, ever the introvert, is sometimes tentative with his gestures. He speaks, thinks, then moves. But unlike his recent turn as an Irishman, the role of a (possibly well-bred) Englishman accommodates this quirk. Alex, meanwhile, shows none of his father’s reticence, bringing an easy swagger to his role.

Spooner, in his state of social ambiguity, is given the royal treatment—with a slap. The servants passive-aggressively bring him champagne and tea, yet Hirst very crisply claims to have “had” his late wife. But the purgatory between good and ill favor can’t last. As Hirst’s gentrified denial hardens to a palpable crust, Spooner runs out of wiggle room. “Consort with the society to which you are attached by bonds of steel!” Hirst exclaims. Spooner, having finally revealed himself to be a penniless vagabond despite all his fancy talk, is finally shown the dark side of the door.

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Tags: Theater, Review

TBA 2011: Whispering Pines

Moulton and Hallett go exploring…but end up back at square one.

Posted by: Aaron Scott and Anne Adams on Sep 13, 2011 at 04:45PM 0 Comments

Cynthia rolls out of bed in the morning into a comical Pee-Wee’s Playhouse-style virtual environment full of bric-a-brac and birdhouses, little knowing that her life’s about to permanently change. As she goes about her daily routine—which includes exercise on a yoga ball and an exaggeratedly luxurious bath—silly singing spirit guides emerge, eventually coaxing her to climb to the top of a giant redwood tree, plumb the depths of the cosmos, and return to her own world with a new sense of purpose.

The visual vocabulary remains absurd and lighthearted throughout: the universe is a default purple star-field Macintosh screen-saver, onscreen “props” respond to Cynthia’s hands with a “click and drag” motion, and each item in the backdrop looks deliberately foreshortened and fake. However, the philosophical challenge posed by “Butterfly,” a Feist-like singer in tye dye, is all too real: how will Cynthia push beyond her mundane day-to-day existence and self-actualize?

The profundity of this premise buoys the whimsy to a point, but starts to deflate when we realize that Cynthia’s big epiphany is shaping up to be, “I should totally feed more birds.” After all that adventure, we find we’ve only actually travelled a few strip-mall yards from the Pottery Barn to the Garden Center.

It’s almost impossible to see this piece without comparing it to a local work, Erin Leddy’s My Mind Is Like An Open Meadow. Both are one-woman shows with contemporary original scores. Both performers sport shapeless blue housedresses and generic graying lady-wigs. But where Leddy takes audiences to unusually honest and personal places, Shana Moulton (“Cynthia”) seems to skim the surface. Even the topics of infirmity, death, and self-sacrifice are translated into such goofy iconography, that they’re effectively trivialized. If this is the intention—bravo. Winking dismissiveness is certainly a contemporary tradition, despite the fact that it’s not this reviewer’s preference.

We can’t deny that this journey is comical, innovative, and idiosyncratic. It’s a showcase of cool digital tricks and techniques, and a forum for some sweet-sounding songs, both pop and opera. But if, like Cynthia, you’re seeking meaningful answers—then you’ll need to look further.

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Tags: Theater, Review, performance, TBA, contemporary, tba2011

TBA 2011: ©ardiff

How David Eckard’s “carnival barker” character, and TBA lookie-loos, got their mettle sorely tested by a drunk bystander.

Posted by: Anne Adams on Sep 10, 2011 at 01:00PM 11 Comments

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

From the get-go, David Eckard’s demeanor was more “Okey dokey” than “Step right up!”

He’d gotten a late start setting up his mobile podium, so all eyes were already following his every move as he unfurled banners, popped panels, and generally transformed what had looked like a rolling refrigerator into a beguiling little circus spectacle. Each revelation begged him to eye the audience, to flourish and mime—but he didn’t. The performance hadn’t “started,” so instead he deadpanned, evaded eyes, and tried to act as his own roadie. Hence the desired “Ladies and gentlemen,” turned into an unspoken “Just a moment, folks,” already weakening the command his character could have taken. In other words, if this medicine man had rolled into my town square, he’d have already given us pause to mistrust him.

“Cut the guy a break,” you may say. And we did. But the patience of an arts festival audience isn’t something a carnival barker can bank on—as Eckard would soon learn.

Finally getting into character, Eckard dipped behind a banner and dramatically tipped back a bottle of brown liquid, inspiring a few laughs. Straightening his natty plaid suit and his rakish bowler, he took to his podium. A little too quietly and with a few discrediting hitches and stammers, he began reciting an ornately verbose introduction. “He’s not being big enough,” I scribbled in my notebook, then tuned back in. Having dispensed his intro, Eckard launched into a story that seemed to be about a sleeping giant. This was too great a temptation for Fate to forebear.

I should mention that a few of us were already aware of a real “sleeping giant” in our midst: a man who had been passed out drunk on the grass throughout Eckard’s aforementioned machinations. Four or five minutes into the speech, this man awoke with a start. “All you gotta-do…is just STAND in a woodenBOX and start talking, and people gather?” marveled the waking wonderer. Eckard ignored him, nattering his next lines: “…borne, by chance…”

“I was born by CHANCE!” chimed the drunk.

“…to upstate New York…”

“Upstate New York? You’re a long WAY from THERE! If I hadta pay to hear this, I tellya whut: I’d want my MONEY back.”

Though the drunk man was beating Eckard at the loudness game by half, both forged forward. Several in the crowd cleared their throats, or shifted onto their other buttock, but no one yet addressed the awakened threat.

After several more shouted retorts, acknowledgment became unavoidable. “Did JUDAS go to heaven?” heckled the drunk. Eckard’s eye brightened. “That’ll be chapter seven, Sir,” he replied before returning to his script, which offered up this uncanny next line:

“Who is he, and how did he end up here?” Seizing the moment, Eckard leveled these word directly at his challenger.

A slight woman in a beige dress steeled her nerves, got up, and approached the man, who was now standing. “Come over here,” she murmured sweetly, moving to the outskirts of the crowd. When he stood firm and loudly refused, she looked stunned, as though she had spent her entire life up to this moment luring any person to any place, simply by asking nicely.

“You’re spoiling the show for everyone!” shouted a plucky Englishwoman.

“Why?” screamed the drunk. “Why can he talk and I can’t?”

“He’s performing,” said several.

“I’m PERFORMING!” yelled the drunk (in all fairness, making a bloody good point).

A middle-aged, fit man in a pumpkin-colored polo shirt got up and squared his broad shoulders at the stranger, saying something inaudible.

“You’re in the MOOD for a FIGHT? Is that what you just said?” the drunk outed him, and—caught—he nodded. “Hit me. Hit me right here in front of all these people!”

Polo Shirt changed tactics: “You like your hat?” he asked (insinuating he might take it).

“It belonged to my brother David,” said the drunk.

Now Polo Shirt launched the lowest blow, which spun the drunk into a whirlwind of incomprehensible preaching and yelling that didn’t abate til the rent-a-cops came. “Is your brother dead?” he intoned—not compassionately, but coolly. Challenging, smooth, and smug, he seemed to imply: Vagrants like you happen on hard times. Some of them die. Ha. The well-heeled for the win.

As you might imagine, the presentation called ©ardiff had long since drifted into insignificance. Despite trying to tune back in, it couldn’t be farther from anyone’s mind. The new questions were plentiful and pressing:

What qualifies as “performance?”

Whence our entitlement to curate our own “entertainment” in a public space?

How comfortable have “performance artists” gotten, and how far have they drifted from comedians, musicians, orators, mimes—and, yes, carnival barkers —all of whom are used to having to fight for the floor?

How many minutes of provocation can you as a private citizen withstand, before you show your ugliest side?

Now, don’t get me wrong: This drunk was no hero. He was a worn-down, uncouth specimen, and he was, in legal parlance, “disturbing the peace.” But like a hurricane, he blew through and toppled a structure that had already evidently been unsound.

What’s next for Eckard, who was quick to remind the crowd that he’d scheduled several more performances? We have some suggestions for weatherproofing:

For a start, pour some real booze in that brown bottle and offer an honest swig to would-be interrupters. (Liquor control can’t have been that strict in the 1860’s—and if you’d thought of it this time, you’d have made an instant friend.) And be louder. If you have to, yell through the bell of an old gramophone. Next, know that any salesman worth his snake-oil is “on” the moment he rolls up—and use the time it takes to set up your bells and whistles, to also build suspense and crowd rapport (Perhaps take a private lesson or two from Vockah Redu ). And most importantly, be prepared to dart swiftly off of your script to slash detractors with your rapier wit. This is a life-or-death racket you’re running. Toughen up so the next town drunk won’t see you tarred and feathered.

Meanwhile, fellow onlookers, we’d be remiss to dismiss this performance as “ruined.” It offered as much spontaneity, philosophy, politics and pith as anything we’re likely to see at this year’s TBA.

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Tags: Art, Theater, performance, TBA, circus, tba2011

Review: Mamma Mia

5 carefully chosen words for a musical that’s obviously found its audience.

Posted by: Anne Adams on Aug 24, 2011 at 07:00AM 1 Comments

Photo: Joan Marcus

Last night, Broadway’s Mamma Mia showed 2900 or so people a nice time. It even earned the now seemingly standard “Portland standing O.” And of course the story’s mother-daughter dynamics reminded me of my own dear mamma, whose conflicting teachings now put me in a twist. On one hand, you should always tell the truth. On the other hand, if you don’t have something nice to say—you shouldn’t say anything at all. The last thing I want to do is ruin someone else’s good time, but heaven forbid I give false praise. Let me behave, then, as I would at the dinner table with a favorite aunt, glossing over the production’s many fallen hems to observe a few general pleasantries that are indisputably true. While buttering a roll, I could safely say:

Accessible
The humor is incredibly broad, and slathered in very simple puns and pantomimes. The costumes (with the exception of a few purple wet-suits and a trio of disco-fab pantsuits) are mostly the stuff of back-to-school shopping. At one point “Napoleon Dynamite”-style dancing draws a gale of giggles. At another point, a silly Australian guy mimes the moves of a charging bull. Girls—and older “gals”—shriek at each other with giddy glee. The songs, obviously, you already know from ABBA, so the moment an actor pronounces the first word from a popular tune, the crowd roars its approval. Everybody “gets” this. What’s not to get?

Energetic
The four leading ladies in this play all exude a lot of energy. And I quite enjoy the two silly sidekicks—Blondie and Redhead. Aren’t they fun?

Cute
It’s cute when grown women behave girlishly. It’s cute when everything works out in the end. And both leading brunettes are indisputably cute—though at moments I’d say the mother character crosses over into “fierce,” don’t you think?

Musical
There are songs in this. Songy song songs. Songs you know, being sung and danced-to. Some of your favorites, no doubt. A few are performed powerfully, like “The Winner Takes It All.” Many more feauture lovely vocal harmonies. The man who plays Harry (the English suitor) has an unexpectedly pretty tenor. I’d say he sounds almost like Paul Simon!

Kitschy
The aforementioned white satin disco togs and purple wetsuits insinuate a kitsch factor, but—you know—it’s simple; not over-the-top. Where Billy Elliot rolled out the full tinsel curtain for its kitsch scenes, Mamma Mia remains much more contained. I don’t want to say “underwhelming,” because that doesn’t sound nice, but, y’know. Moderate.

In short, if you already love ABBA, silliness, and “girl power” style plots, you’ll probably have a nice time at this musical, as will your like-minded mothers, sisters, and daughters. I, meanwhile, must sip some water, lest unspoken critiques burn a hole in my tongue.

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Tags: Theater, Review, broadway

Review: Trek in the Park

Intrepid Portland Monthly intern Griffin Funk takes a Trek to Woodlawn Park to see what all the buzz is about.

Posted by: Griffin Funk on Jul 25, 2011 at 08:00AM 0 Comments

Mirror, Mirror on the lawn. After next weekend, it’ll be gone.

In Woodlawn Park last Saturday afternoon, Trekkies laid down blankets, read books and discussed the use of the Moog Theremin. A woman playing a Star Trek themed version of “Uno” slapped down a card and exclaimed, “Uno! I’m a doctor!” referring to a character catchphrase from the series. My clumsy attempts to converse by name-dropping Yoda, Chewy and Darth Vader were immediately quashed. In the words of one bystander, “That topic is taboo here.” At any moment, I worried that our whole crew might be ambushed and noogied into submission by a gang of jocks—but I’d gladly risk it to catch Atomic Arts’ Trek in The Park, a live, outdoor, lo-fi re-enactment of a classic 60’s Trek episode, “Mirror Mirror.”

The episode, which the man standing next to me in a Starship Enterprise t-shirt referred to as “beloved," first aired in 1967, depicting the “interdimensional transfer” of Captain Kirk, Dr. McCoy, Scotty and Lt. Uhura to an evil version of the Enterprise where assassination, torture and brutal murder are the norm. Captain Kirk eloquently sums up the situation when he states, “It’s our Enterprise… but it isn’t.” This tale of moral contingency proves ripe for a self-aware and adoring retelling from the Atomic Arts crew.

Adam Rosko, who also directs the show, plays Kirk. In the spirit of William Shatner, Rosko portrays a confident, swaggering Captain, but there’s a key difference: Rosko’s Kirk is fully aware that some of his lines will induce wild laughter from the all-ages Trekkie crowd. To accomodate this, he “milks” certain lines and takes longer pauses. Jesse Graff, meanwhile, acts appropriately stoic as Vulcan Mr. Spock, refusing to crack even when the crowd comes unglued. Intergalactic soundscapes from Peter Dean and Isopod help mentally transport the audience from the verdant, sunlit Woodlawn Park amphitheater to the dark, sparkly realm of space travel. Meanwhile, Steven Schmucker provides impeccably timed sound effects which successfully create props and objects that are not physically there. Of course, the park atmosphere does its best to encroach, with honking cars, planes flying overhead and babies crying. Taking these interruptions in stride, the group dramatically pauses and gazes skyward until the noise subsides.

Since the original script was written for television and not the stage, some modifications have been made. Moments that would typically usher in a commercial break, usually signified by a Captain Kirk voice over starting with “Captain’s log: Star Date unknown…” are played straight through. Also, in lieu of “beam-me-up” special effects, four women called the “Magnetic Storm Girls” parade around in shimmery gold sequined dresses as synthesized space noises stream through the amplifier. These live action alterations add to the quirky, lighthearted character of the performance.

The nearly hour-long show features several athletic, gut-busting fight scenes, and actors brandish plenty of hilarious homemade knives and phaser guns. This playful violence elicits plenty of cheers, whistles, and laughter—especially when Captain Kirk defeats Evil Mr. Spock.

The popularity of the show has clearly outgrown the confines of Woodlawn Park; the small amphitheater has been filled to capacity throughout the play’s run, forcing many to stand, and even more to sit down on the lawn where dialogue is hard to hear. This is an issue that Rosko has addressed, but he maintains that the troupe will finish out the third season of Trek in the Park at Woodlawn. So, if you are planning on catching the closing weekend (July 30-31), Spock ears and a homemade phaser gun are optional—but early arrival is mandatory.

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Tags: Theater, Review, kitsch