Number 45: March 2005 Edition
by Carl F. Gauze
I’m ready for a new year, the last one was nothing to brag about. You know the key details, so lets focus on the new and hope somehting better comes out of the wreckage of the old. It’s time for the newest major artsy fartsy event on Orlando’s cultural Horizon, “Playfest! 2005”. I’m not thrilled about the excalimation point in themiddle, but other than that it promises some excitng new worksa and world premiers from local and national writers. There’s a nucleus of new works coming from this town, and one of these might be the next “Cats”. Only more interesting.
Arcadia
By Tom Stoppard
Directed by Alan Bruun
Starring Marnee McClellan, Jay Becker, Jamie Middleton, Tommy Keesling
Mad Cow Theater, Orlando Florida.
It’s so rare to see a play than handles Chaos Theory, Gödel’s Uncertainty Theorem, and inappropriate relationship so neatly. Parallel histories fill the ancient seat of Selbey Hall, both surprisingly similar even with 300 years separating them. In the not-so-good old days, Septimus Hodge (Becker) is engaged to teach precocious Thomasina Coverly (McClellan) arts and algebra. She’s a quick study, and dopes out the bones of chaos theory and the second law of thermodynamics pretty much on her own. She’s hobbled not only by her female status, but by a general lack of computational power in those days as she fills a notebook with brilliantly unappreciated math, only to die tragically in a fire on the eve of her 17th birthday. In the present day, academic muckraker Bernard Nightingale (Keesling) imposes on the home owner Valentine Coverly (Nick Sprysenski) and his academic girlfriend Hanna (Middleton). She’s researching the hermit who used to live on the grounds in the 1800’s, but Bernard thinks is possible Lord Byron shot extremely minor poet Ezra Chater (Alan Sinic) in a duel and fled the country. It’s a stretch, and of interest only to specialists, but then so is Chaos Theory.
There’s a strong thread of precious witticisms running though the show, with Oscar Wilde-like lines such as “Sex is so much nicer than Love”. There’s also a reasonable explanation of some fairly high powered mathematics, with reference to Fermat’s theorem and the philosophical argument between a predictable LaPlacian universe lacking free will and a more modern Quantum universe nearly devoid of determinism. But best of all, there’s a good slug of regency sex revolving around the spic and span Septimus and his ready to rock protégé Thomasina. In the modern flip of the story, sexual tension builds between the astonishly annoying Bernard and uptight Hanna. Other significant performances come from the Quaker engineer and landscaper Noakes (Jamie Cline) and reactionary lady Croom (Marty Stonerock). She has fairly open ideas about romance, but hates to see the formally classic gardens replaced by the romantic chaos of Noakes’ new style, just as in the early 20th century reactionaries like Einstein fought against the quantum mechanical interpretation of our universe.
Do not fear the math, there’s no quiz and it only decorates the romance. There are fewer servants and more computer power in the mansion today, but nothing has really changed in the relation between man and woman. Director Gibson has propelled this potential lecture back into the world we seek on the stage – man vs. girl with no way either side can predict what the other will do. You could get a doctorate on the topic, and still not understand it.
For more information on Mad Cow, please visit http://www.madcowtheatre.com
Romantic Comedy
By Bernard Slade
Directed By Jay Hopkins
Starring Robyn Pedretti and Steven Hurst
Jester Theater Company
Studio Theater, Orlando, Fla.
Famous Author School never tells you about this problem – you might just fall in love with your writing partner. It happened to Jason (Hurst) – his old partner quit, and gangly Phoebe (Pedretti) shows up on his wedding day, promising script in hand. Its tough finding a partner in this intimate endeavor, but he takes her on at first sight and even his long suffering bride Allison (Elizabeth Bradshaw) accepts the situation. Jason may sleep with Allison, but he spends his time with Phoebe. Quite a bit of plot occurs next, with alcoholism, divorce and vomiting in the mayor’s shoes driving the plot forward. Personally, I’d give almost anything to vomit in the mayor’s shoes, but to Phoebe it’s a bit embarrassing. By the 3rd act, Phoebe has to make a choice – stick with the sexually dysfunctional Jason, or follow her perennial second fiddle hobby Leo (Jason Horne) to Madrid. Consider the title, and guess what happens – this is a 1960’s drawing room comedy, stretching the boundaries, but not too much.
While the plot is a bit convolutes, you’ll keep up with it as Phoebe emits that odd sexuality that I associate with intelligent women. Hovering over the action is Jason’s agent, the motherly if not drunken Anitra Pritchard. Jason takes a fall, and while the temptation is obvious, he eventually falters with the cranky leading lady Kate (Christy DeMeritt). When discovered, she appears in an inside out dress, which is oddly attractive. She means nothing to Jason (always the excuse, isn’t it?) but his infidelity motivates Phoebe to go on to bigger and better things. Leo is the sad one – he’s the only sincere person up there, he always does the right thing, and gets the short end of the manuscript.
While the plot has a few flaws, the comedy itself is flawless as a prissy and self satisfied Jason falls to earth, and the uncomfortable Phoebe finds her place in the world, lets down her a hair, and becomes the sex goddess that always lurked inside. “Romantic Comedy” is not only funny and romantic, but transcend any dated dialog, out-of-date word processors, or contrived situation. It make you laugh, t makes you care about everyone including distant Allison, and has put a goal in my mind. I WANT to puke on Buddy Dyers hush puppies. Now, if only I had a good plot device…
For more information on Jester Theater Company, please visit http://www.jestertheater.com
The Trickeries of Scapin
By Molière
Translated by Tunc Yalman
Directed by Christopher Niess
Starring Lisa Bryant, Aaron Kirkpatrick, Michael Navarro
UCF Conservatory Theater
At the Orlando Rep, Orlando, Fla.
Molière on a trampoline – who would have thought to do that? Certainly not I, but the effect is stunning – no matter what happens in the script, the cast bounces around like Tigger in masks, climbing up and sliding down a theatrical money bar gym set. The plot is hopelessly 17th century – a young man Octave (Kirkpatrick) secretly marries the wrong woman, an over Barbiefied squeaker of a girl Hyacinte (Brittany Berkowitz). His semi best friend Leandre (Donte Bonner) has similar low taste – he’s gone for the gypsy chick Zerbinette (Niki Klass). Neither one has told dear old dad, both of whom are business partners. Octave’s dad Argante (Todd Davis) is pretty ticked, along with Leander’s poppa Gerent (Sam Waters). What to do? Why, appeal to rapscallion servant Scapin (Bryant), that sexually ambiguous master of solving any problem. Along with side kick Sylvester (Navarro), Scapino fleeces each father for a stack of doubloons, repairs the family ties, and reveals that each girl is in fact worthy of marriage. Quite the bastard, that Scapin!
Molière ranks in timelessness with the earlier English Bard, if he falls a few centuries later in time. Perhaps the plot is a hair hackneyed; this clever and energetic production runs the cast up and down the stairs in and out of the lofts of the theater, sometimes attacking each other and often stealing shoes from the paying customers. Scapin is wonderful, alternately boorish and crooked, clever and cloying. While Scapin is low of stature in the community of the wealthy, and ranks high in the eyes of the serving class. His (or her) general “don’t give a damn” attitude and general boldness allows the freedom to do anything. Around Scapin swirls a bouncy and convincing crowd of masked revelers, all representing the stereotypes of pre-revolutionary France. Navarro’s Sylvester is the perfect second banana, obedient and fearless, Klass’s Zerbinette slathers sex on the stage, and Todd Davis rages impotently as the wronged father – oh, that we could all do that to dear old dad!
Molière skewers the pretense of the day, and enough of the human condition remains unchanged to carry forward to the 21st century. The language is a bit stilted, but not to the point of confusion. What really pulls this production into the new millennia is the adaptation – director Niess puts a clever twist on the staging, and with an abundance of young actors who probably hang out in health clubs instead of bars, this ballistic project flies.
Everyman
By Anonymous
Directed by Elena Day and Chris Gibson
Mad Cow Theater, Orlando, Fla.
Every man owes God a death, and in the Christian tradition, a bit more beyond that. Death (Terrence Yip) drops by the party that surrounds Everyman (Damany Riley). It’s time, and a fevered and fruitless negotiation commences. In the compressed and expanded world of stage time, Everyman has time to visit a few of his acquaintances before his time ends. His closest friend (David Knoell) cheers him up by abandoning him. His family asks him to hurry along so they can start the wake. And his wealth laughs him along – gold and silver don’t visit the grave, only humans. Stripped to his skivvies, there little left beside him but his crippled Good Works (Sarah French) and the aid of divine Knowledge (Kimberly Gray). They become his spirit guides and convince him penance and submission are the only course left, and he accepts his position.
While this work was written 500 years ago, not that much has changed even if our cultural context has shifter significantly. Mad Cow’s interpretation helps enormously, as we see the Elizabethan text set against a body of modern dance and movement. Riley’s portrayl of Everyman is truly amazing, not only for his sense of pain and abandonment, but also for his ability to throw himself down like he was really struck by that scourge Knowledge wields. Both the female supporting actresses slide between pathos and sultriness, one for this world, and the other for the next. Yip and Knoll did a deft job of balancing on each others knees, sometimes as players, and sometimes just parking themselves as props when not needed in the direct action.
While Everyman is an overtly religious work, somehow the direct message of sin and redemption was transformed from sermon to a mirror of each of our lives. We have all done horrible things, either publicly or privately, and arrogance will not cure us or our victims. This simple story tells out on a minimal set, cued by gentle lighting shifts and almost no props. This enhances the effect – we all expect death to be the ultimate minimalist experience, with no clothes, no friends and no cell phone. You have to make it into the afterlife with nothing but your wits, and maybe not even those will be available. That’s what supernatural being provide – comfort for when there is none.
For more information on Mad Cow, please visit http://www.madcowtheatre.com
Moon For The Misbegotten
By Eugene O’Neill
Directed by David Lee
Starring Susan Felder, Robertson Carricart, Eric Hissom
Orlando – UCF Shakespeare Festival
Just because you’re spiraling in doesn’t mean you can’t have a few drinks on the way down. James Tyrone (Hissom) spent his life drinking and whoring and preparing to waste his mother’s inheritance. Josie Hogan (Felder) and her rapscallion father Phil (Carricart) live the high life of the Lace Curtain Irish, alternately starving and drinking and only bathing when absolutely necessary. Both find solace in the other – James seeks the mothering bosom of Josie, believing her to be pure, and Phil sees a path to the pocket book of James’ dead mama. Both hold sway over the other – James needs the extra alcohol Phil produces, and the Hogan’s need James to not call them on back rent. The threat is real as he has an offer from Standard Oil henchman T Stedman Harder (Timothy Shane). It seems the Hogan’s hogs like to wallow in the pond next door, which is the local source of ice. Yummy. It’s a close give and take, with James treading dangerously close to rape and Phil ready to frame him in any event.
It’s a schizophrenic show, with a wildly funny first act and a rather maudlin second. The first act flies on the comic wings of Carricart’s Popeye-list spunk and Hissom’s below the belt humor. Josie is as close to calm as anyone could be in this drama fueled by cheap booze and remorse, but she alternates between suspicious claims of virginity and exaggerated claims of massive conquests. Either way, she’s the sort of girl who you believe can’t say no. The second act slows down considerable as Hissom revels in the misery that lead him to his dipsomania – Momma did it first, and so did daddy, and it IS the O’Neill family business. One thing’s certain; he had the DT’s down pretty well. We spend what seems like most of the night watch Josie waver between Phil’s plot and her desire to mother James, and maybe clean up and go to a nice restaurant. At one point we all thought James had finally succumbed to the ethanol, but he wakes up and we go on for another 15 minutes. Its misery, but at least it’s someone else’s.
OK, so everyone was a cheap, chiseling drunk with no employment. But they chiseled and drank on a beautiful set with a nice row of birch trees and lighting that made the whole show look like a top end performance of Oklahoma. They even had a working hand pump, so when the chips were down and James needed to actully consume water, it was at hand. There may be a message lurking here, or it may be that O’Neill found his own families misfortunes compelling enough to record them for posterity. Either way, this play succeeds with a set of completely unsavory characters. Booze, money or lust – we all need them, but sometimes there is a case for moderation.
For more information on UCF-Shakespeare, visit http://www.shakespearefest.org
Into the Woods
Music and Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim
Book by James Lapine
Directed by Anne Hering
Perhaps there really IS a distant kingdom, far, far away where all the fairy tale people live lives of quiet desperation, doing taxes and worrying about the king’s policy on same sex marriage. Sondheim builds such a place, and all out friends from the age of three live there – Jack (Chad Cartledge), Cinderella (Miriannette Gayoso), Prince Charming (Charlie Reuter), and even the Baker and his wife (Rod Cathey and Amada Rispoli), who seem to be the only people actully invoved in real economic activity. There lives interact, and each has a crisis to resolve, or a wish to fulfill – Cinderella seeks a chance to touch fame, the Baker wants a family, Jack doesn’t want to be considered “special” anymore. Even the Witch (Liza Gonzalez) just wants people to stay out of her garden. All these are reasonable desires, and we make nothing special about holding them here in the real world. But Sondheim send them forth into a big dark woods, a place now revered for it’s ecological charm, but in olden days a fearsome place of beasts and horror. That’s where everyone finds their desire, at least in the first act. How nice.
But in the second act, we find that Getting What We Want doesn’t always feel good, and when bad things happen to our enemies, they bleed as well. More of the cast dies here than in Titus Andronicus, and most of the deaths are violent – the Narrator (David Almeida) is dropped by a giant, the Wolf (Phil Pollard) is slit open, The Mysterious Man (Geoffrey Agpalo) has a heart attack, on and on. The lucky ones face lesser, but still pressing problems – Cinderella finds court life stultifying, Jack never learned how to manage money, and even Little Red Riding Hood (Ashley Shapiro) faces a fashion crisis. Moral? You don’t know what you got till it’s gone.
Into the Woods is a challenging play for both cast and audience. There’s a lot going on onstage, and subtext lurks behind every tree. Adding to the challenge is the lack of a strong humable hit to carry home, and serious sound problems only exacerbated the problem. However, most of the cast handled the challenge, and the show was stolen by Milky White (Josh Geoghagan), a guy in a silly cow suit. Other noteworthy work came from Amanda Rispoli as the Baker’s Wife, Narrator David Almeida, and Witch Liza Gonzales, all of whom took their roles to a higher level. Some of the weaker characters were the Wolf, who seemed more sleazy than ominous, and an overly strident Little Red Riding Hood. Overall, it was a reasonable job on a tough play, and one should never step down from a challenge, unless it comes from a 20 foot Giant. Then you should run like heck.
For more information on Valencia Character Company, please visit http://valenciacc.edu/theater/
The Trojan Women
By Euripides
Translated, Adapted and Directed by Bobby Bell
Starring Maria Ragan, Rick Paulin
Seminole Community College Fine Arts Theater
War is heck, and its aftermath can be worse. We find ourselves next to the breached wall of proud Troy, which has just gotten its booty kicked by the wily Greeks. The war was notionally to recover Helen (Amy Tyree), the unfaithful wife of Menelaus (Stephen Pugh), but there were economic reasons as well as there are for all wars. Now King Priam is dead and his wife Hecuba (Ragan) mourns him and the loss of her station. The city smolders, and the women are being divided up by the victors. Bringing her news, both bad and good, is the Greek envoy Talthybius (Paulin). He’s on the winning side, but feels bad about his countrymen’s brutality. His messages reveal increasingly bad news – more and more of Hecuba’s children are dead, and her half crazy prophetess daughter Cassandra (Kimberly Luffman) points out it will take the Greeks 10 years to get home, so it’s not like mom will ever actually be a slave IN Greece. Well, that’s something, and shows the Greeks what they get for desecrating the temple of their own patron goddess.
Bobby Bell has spun this story with a modernized setting, juxtaposing the classic anti-war tale against events in Iraq. The women all wear veils and shapeless black robes, and the men are in US desert camouflage. The set is simple yet dramatic, with the look of Falluja or any other bloody dusty town on the Tigris. The text is true to the original, but the story timeless enough that no real adjustments need to be made. War came, some one lost badly, and the victors rampage. Thus it’s always been, and there lies the drama. Hecuba is truly to be pitied, as she didn’t start the war. That motive came from her son Paris, and it’s not like the Gods hadn’t made one of those completely vague and useless prophecies warning her to kill him when she could. As her children and grandchildren perish, you feel for her. Even more sympathetic is Talthybius, who attempts to place a bit of mercy on the face of the conquerors. He does what he can for Hecuba, but it’s little enough, as he ultimately must carry out his brutal orders.
We’ve all heard of the fog of war, and that fog appears in the last scene as bombardment and smoke wipe out the remains of the city. You can’t control the damage in battle, and here there was little control of the smoke machines, which sent billows of obscurants to the stage right side of the audience. The effect was ominous, with lurid lighting heightening the drama. I sat up and as far to the other side as possible, thus replicating the view of the typical American – you watch CNN and then change channels when it becomes too intense. That option is not available to the locals.
The Visit
By Friedrich Duerrenmatt
Adapted by Maurice Valency
Directed by Mark Brotherton
Starring Kate Ingram, Donald Seay
UCF Conservatory Theater, Orlando Fla.
There’s noting like a scorned woman to make your day. It’s been years, but gentle Anton Schill (Seay) had an interlude with a girl Claire (Ingram) that led to a child. He didn’t do the right thing, but dumped her and paid local boys Jacob and Ludwig (Mike Pettery and Michael Baugh) to lie in court. Now he’s a respected shop keeper and in line to be mayor in this faded town, and Claire is a billionaire philanthropist. But it’s not sympathy for her fellow man that drives her generosity, but a fiendish plan to achieve vengeance. One billion dollars is her offer – half to the town as a whole and half to the locals, in cash. Only one small condition – she wants the head of Anton, distanced from his body.
As her influence spreads, the dead gray set gradually becomes spattered with more and more red objects. The people, formerly starving, and now buying luxuries on credit. Will they hand over Anton? No, no, of course not, not until the promise of wealth supercedes any internal moral compass they may have. It’s easy to speak of the “right thing” when you’re well fed, but to a starving man with starving children, the question is a bit academic.
There’s a large slice of the UCF Fine Arts program on this stage in the many roles. Clearly the bulk of the work goes to Ingram and Seay, who really show the kids how it’s done. Not that that belittles anyone else’s efforts. The twins Kobby and Lobby, the now blinded pair who lied for Anton nearly add a creepy menace with twin Gollum-like performances. Other leading citizens, like the pastor (Ben Hope) and the Police chief, Schultz (Robert stack) are ably sincere as they gradually abandon their old friend for their new green ones. Even the children Ottille and Karl (Tiara Layner and Giancarlo Damian) slide the shiv into daddies back. When it’s time for his execution, they pop off with mom to see a movie in the next town, and No Thank You, daddy can’t go for a drive in the new car instead.
It’s a wrenching tale, and shows that old wounds never heal. Well, they DO heal if the wounded never achieves enough power to reopen them, but if that happens, there is little that can be done by the offending party. Here, the schemes of Claire take years to develop, and months to play out, but it’s a fine, fine view of vengeance. Be glad you’re in the seats and can go home afterwards.
For more information on UCF Conservatory Theatre, visit http://www.theatre.ucf.edu
The Mikado
By Arthur Sullivan and William Gilbert
Directed by Dorothy Danners
Starring Robert Orth, Aaron Pegram, Tonna Miller
Orlando Opera at Bob Carr Performing Art Center, Orlando, Fla.
There a glorious joy in celebrating cultural stereotypes you don’t really understand. Japan was still a new and mysterious place when Gilbert and Sullivan penned this simple romance, but a fine setting for shifting from the maudlin to the absurd. Bizarre names abound in Titipu, a rural sub-prefecture of the land of the rising sun when people are named with kiddy words like “Pish-Tush” and “Peep-Bo”. Distant emperor Mikado (John Stephens) decrees death to those that flirt, and when crusty Ko-Ko (Orth) gets a reprieve, he also get the job of Lord High Executioner. He has no stomach for the job, and the death toll drops until Mikado notices and threatens to visit. Rather than chop heads, he plans to marry his beautiful ward Yum-yum (Miller) Naturally, a better deal lurks in her corner – apparently penniless Nanki-poo (Pegram) loves her as well as he flees an arranged mariage with the impressivly ugly Katisha (Susan Shafer). Nanki-poo works a great deal – he will marry her for a month, then lose his head to make Ko-Ko’s quota. Now THAT’S light opera!
But who cares about plot? Its sets and songs and an English music hall-derived over acting we all seek. Being the Orlando Opera, there’s no problem with anyone’s voice, providing you can hear them in the acoustically dead Bob Carr. The chorus numbers were a particular problem, with most lyrics inaudible in the third row. Fortunately, the smaller numbers came across well, and I especially liked the duet between Pegram’s Nanki-Poo and Pooh-Bah (Jason Budd) “And Have I Journeyed for a month” Ko-Ko got in a few good licks with his big and silly “Tit Willow”, but it was Budd’s Pooh-Bah who took most of the laughs as the epitome of crooked bureaucracy. Clever use of superscripts on a screen over the stage played word games with the audience, including scripting various things in Japanese and issuing disclaimers from the opera board when things became ever so slightly just possibly offensive somehow. The only really odd thing to happen occurred when Ko-Ko fled the inimitable Katisha by running across a canal that had previously held the royal barge. I guess the tide went out.
Not being an opera regular, I was surprised that this elaborate and well executed show only ran three times. True, it packed the Carr even as we fought the Orlando Magic for parking space, but the quality of the performance was outstanding and deserves a longer run. And how often do you visit a part of Japan event he Japanese have never found?
For more information on Orlando Opera, visit http://www.orlandoopera.org/
Always…Patsy Cline
Written By Ted Swindley
Directed by Rus Blackwell
Starring Darlin Barry and Whitney Goin
The Vine Theater at the Orlando Rep, Orlando Fla.
When a show starts with a song about mama’s rainy ride in a hearse, you know you’re in the heart of country music. It’s the working man’s blues, a sizzling demographic in 1962, when rock and roll was still an infant. Into this musical trend comes a young Patsy Cline (Barry), a typical country girl with an unforgettable voice and a good group of lyricists behind her. She struggles long to become an overnight sensation, and on the way up the ladder of fame she meets on of those obsessive fans Louise (Goin), who either makes your life hell or makes the whole fame and fortune thing worthwhile. Luckily, this was the good kind of fan, and a ditsy big haired girl befriends Patsy, giving a little help just when she can use it. The two become fast friends until a tragic plane crash kills Patsy a few short yeas later.
The show isn’t about drama or friendship, but about a faithful, loving recollection of Patsy Cline’s music. Local singer Darlin Barry has the sound down to scary perfection, and belts through 2 dozen hits, some of which are still in hot rotation somewhere on the dial. Barry looks a bit older and more cynical than Patsy might have, but then she had been through the evil male meat grinder already, and knew the pain that make this Old School style of country music so, so real. Barry sings with a cleverly concealed mike, and sometimes she comes through the speakers with a touch of reverb and that sort of flat, band limited sound that high quality AM radio provided. Other times she sings purely from her throat, projecting a powerful presence, made more so by the tight intimacy of the Tupperware Theater.
With Barry teasing the same emotion out of Clines music as the original did 40 years ago, a delightfully silly Goin bounces off the walls as the caricature of the quintessential country fan – big hair, big smile, and a Texas attitude tempered by her own experiences with life. There’s even a bit of audience participation, with a lucky guy pulled out of the front row for an impromptu jitterbug.
“Always…” blasts through the heart of American Country and the heart of the put upon woman, and despite one or two touching moments, is a joyful celebration of what music can do to pull an audience and a performer together. You don’t need a big black hat, but if you wear one, they can provide a hay bale for you to sit on while you clap.
Happy Days
By Samuel Beckett
Directed by Alan Bruun
With Peg O’Keef, Alan Sincic
Mad Cow Theater, Orlando, Fla.</b>
Some days you find yourself up to your butt in alligators. Other days you’re up to your butt in muck, and that’s where Winnie (O’Keef) wakes up on a regular basis. It’s not immediately clear why she’s waist deep in this pile of mud, but everything she needs is there in her bag – toothbrush, mirror, handgun, you name it. Behind the pile of dirt is a man who might be her husband, Willie (Sincic). Willie doesn’t have much to say, he just reads random items from the newspaper while Winnie goes on and on about how great a day it is. The day drags on, minor crises come and go, and what do we have, but drawn out existential life? Existentialism escalates as the second act opens, with O’Keef now up to her neck in immobility and Willie out of sight until he ineffectively crawls out and fails to climb the mound. Is it still a happy day? Why, sure, Winnie says so, so it must be. It reminds me of a marriage drifted off into the weeds – Willie could easily dig her out, and she could dig herself out, but either represents change and either is much worse than sinking into the morass. And where does she end up? Immobile, ineffective, and yet strangely happy.
As piles of dirt on stage go, this one worked well and it’s hard to think of anyone beside Ms. O’Keef who would look as good sitting in it. There’s a high level of skill needed to sit still and blather on about nothing, and yet convey a message of desolation and desperation effectively. Sincic had less to work with, script-wise, yet he was quite effective at crawling out miserably to say goodbye to the woman of his life, particularly after he had largely ignored her for so long. Being Becket, all of this stuff sort of seeps into your mind as you drive home, and even after you’ve discussed it for a while, you still don’t know if you got it right. “Happy Days,” while very well done, is not for the casual theater patron – its level of surrealism, absurdity and misdirection will leave your average couch potato fried
For more information on Mad Cow, please visit http://www.madcowtheatre.com
New Playfest – Staged Readings
Orlando UCF Shakespeare Center
Orlando, Fla.
The Shakespeare Festival of New Plays (or PlayFest, the name is a bit fluid sometimes) offers up over a dozen readings, free to the public with a festival button. This is one of the best deals going, as all the shows are reasonably far along, professionally directed and acted, and cover a wide range of material. However, these are readings and as such still works in progress. Commenting on them is a little dangerous, as all may see major revisions before they appear in final form. There’s a good crop in this festival, and I’ll risk offering some broad views of the material as presented.
Codes (written by John Minigan, directed by Kristen Clippard) explores a long-term relationship between an actress Anna (Sarah Hankins) and her teacher and mentor Curt (Eric Hissom). They meet in her freshman year, with Anna hot off a successful high school drama career. Curt whips her into shape by making her THINK about what she is doing, and not just reading the lines. Always a painful process, but the rigor forges her into a career so successful she worries whether minivan ads are a sell-out. “Codes” is about being in theater, in a general class of shows like “Anton in Show Business” or “Noises Off”. A certain familiarity with behind-the-scenes theater workings helps the jokes.
“…Nothing Happened…“ (written and directed by John DiDonna) explores the psyche of a woman after sexual assault, leading to a breakdown of her internal self. Eight voices represent aspects such as Denial, Anger, Rationalization, and a strong male fantasy figure called “Rock.” The author continues to work with the piece and his goal for this intriguing work is still unclear.
Shatter The Sky (written by Sean Christopher Lewis, directed by Rob Anderson) takes an ancient Greek tragedy, freshens up the language, and leaves the bones of the tragedy intact. We know this is Greek, not only because of the names (Orestes is played by the threatening Michael Chappell, Menelaus by the magnificent Veryl E. Jones), but by the nature of the tragedy – matricide and incest. I’m sure people did that sort of think long before the golden age of Pericles, but it took Greek literature to codify just how you are supposed to feel after committing these awful acts.
The country folk of post-Civil War America relived these Greek tragedies, and we cover that territory in the slightly fictionalized tale of the Hatfields and McCoys in “Last Hanging in Pike County”. (written by Janice Kennedy, directed by Margaret Nolan). We’ve all heard of the Hatfield / McCoy feud, if only from the cartoons of our youth, and the parallels to Romeo and Juliet are there – young people in love despite larger family problems, bad advice all around, and untimely death for the nice people, long life and prosperity for the bad. It’s a very authentic story, in both text and dialect, even if the country talk gets a bit thick from time to time.
“Seagulls In A Cherry Tree” (written by William Missouri Downs, directed by Thomas Joyner) ties all of Chekhov’s major plays into one work that draws a steady stream of laughs from this admittedly literate crowd. Knowing the story of at least one of these plays will help a lot, but even if you don’t, the logic of the tale is clear, as the banality of life and bad financial planning causes the loss of the past, and a family estate passes into the hands of a new generation, a generation unfamiliar with how things OUGHT to be, and ready to make some money off the old place before everyone starves. Now, that’s Russian.
The clear high point of New Playfest is “Every Christmas Story Ever Told” (written by Michael Carlton, John Alverez, and James Fitzgerald, directed by Jim Helsinger). One of the crises in modern theater is the dreaded Christmas Carol, a show which is a guaranteed money maker and keeps more than one company afloat in this town. But, everyone recognizes its done-to-deathness, and we all seek an alternative. This broad parody ties pretty much everything on TV for the month of December into one big pile of topical silliness, and it flies along skewering all the stuff in need of a stake of holly through its heart. Impressively, this reading drew an ovation, and I suspect this will start appearing on stage soon.
Another very funny work in progress is “The Night They Kidnapped Barrymore” (written by Mark Leiren-Yong, directed by Arlen Bensen). The premise is that Peter Lorrie and Humphrey Bogart steal Barrymore’s corpse and prop it up in Errol Flynn’s apartment. The pair are working on Casablanca, and both despise the movie and each other. The opening act draws a solid laugh on nearly every line, and only when the cast drifts into self-explanatory monologues does the energy fade a bit.
Local writer John Goring presented a comprehensive look at the post-puritan England of King Charles in “The Royal Baker”. His reign was one of increasing tolerance, which he took advantage of with his numerous dalliances. Being rather broad-minded, he allowed his wife similar latitude, although he insisted on bestowing some rank on her boyfriend, Sir Roger (Simon Needham). A big part of the fun is multiple euphemisms for sex and body parts, giving the reading a Monty Python feel right up to the hanging at the end.
“Hunting the Basilisk” (by J Shafer, directed by Megan Alrutz) presents four strong female characters in the afterlife, each confronting some internal demon that haunted them in life. It’s the afterlife, and time and place are a bit diffuse, and the women span the period of the French revolution to today. The talk back was one of the best I’ve participated in, and the author revealed that while he had written it specifically to provide strong roles for women, most festivals devoted to women-centric plays would not produce it due to his gender.
Lysistrata
By Aristophanes
Directed by Belinda Boyd
Starring Jenny Ashman, Kathleen Lake, Ashley Fisher
UCF Conservatory Theater, Orlando, Fla. </b>
I think they beat the penis jokes to death in the second act, but that sort of comes with the territory. It’s the middle of the Peloponnesian wars, a conflict which vexes the Greeks for decades and history students for centuries. Randy God Zeus (Keston John) bets his faithful wife Hera (Mimi Jimenez) that one or the other can end this war by disguising themselves as mortals and arguing the humans into reasonableness. The wager? Ten years of unharassed infidelity if Zeus wins. Ah, it’s good to be a god.
Down on the ground, Lysistrata (Ashman) proposes that all the women in Athens and Sparta withhold sex from their men until a truce is signed. While this plan is conceptually good, enforcement is tough even after they swear an oath on an 8-foot phallus spewing red streamers. This is WAY beyond symbolism. In the second act the men arrive, and it’s clear the plan is having its effects. My advice? Don’t sit in an aisle seat.
Lysistrata is the original anti-war story, ridiculing the testosterone-laced violence of the men with the bawdy, lusty antics of the town’s women. While Lysistrata holds the women together with stirring speeches, the Greek women cheerfully attempt to mount anything that moves, particularly Jaded Kleonike (Lake) and earthy Myrrine (Fisher). In the second act, most of the action shifts focus to Myrrine and her aroused husband Kinesias (Kevin Blackwelder) as she teases and leads him on. UCF pushes the story about as far as a state-funded institution can, with wonderful results. When not playing young, horny housewives and protuberant soldiers, the male and female chorus dons wonderful masks transforming them in to elderly citizens, whining about their bad backs.
The main flaw in this otherwise flawless show comes from the weird voice effects applied to Zeus and Hera, making most of their dialog incomprehensible. Fortunately, the Greeks always repeat the key points, so eventually you get the gist of the bet. Lysistrata is really for a mature audience, which I find refreshing after the icky stickiness of last month.
For more information on UCF Conservatory Theatre, visit
Driven to Abstraction
By D.W. Gregory
Directed by Kathleen Lindsey
New Playfest, Orlando UCF Shakespeare Center, Orlando, Fla.
While “Driven to Abstraction” was presented as a workshop, it represented a nearly complete story with many of the nuances needed to transition to a full production. We see two intertwined tales – Alya Harrison plays Sue, an earnest art history student dating uptight premed candidate Brad (Patrick Braillard). He doesn’t “get” art, and convinces Sue to help him with a paper for the class, taught by Tad Ingram. Against this context, we see a sketch of Picasso’s (Ingram’s) life and loves, particularly with his lover and muse Dora Maar. Surrounding both stories is a smallish Greek chorus of art critics and Picasso hangers-on who make an ironic counter point by saying the same things over and over. When the professor figures out Sue wrote Brad’s paper, he seduces her, and then (and this is the point that’s still slightly fuzzy) kills her or causes her suicide.
Whether you “get” modern art or don’t (and some days, I just can’t tell if my Mondrian is upside down), there is a good deal of insight into both the student condition and the life of the 20th century’s most prolific painters. The only weak spot I saw was the death at the end, but even interpreting this as deliberate ambiguity doesn’t reduce the enjoyment of this cleverly written piece.
Coyote on a Fence
Written By Bruce Graham
Directed by Chris Jorie
Starring T. Robert Pigott, Jim Howard
Orlando Theater Project at Seminole Community College
If you’re bad enough we remove you from society and put you in jail. If you’re really bad, we keep you there till you die, and maybe speed the process a bit. It’s a minor industry, arresting, store housing, and debating these people, but don’t get me wrong – most of these guys you don’t want wandering around. Tonight John Brennan (Howard) is the jailhouse intellectual – erudite, clever, and a good enough speller to edit the Death Row Advocate. His complete complex sentences make him the darling of the New York Times and high on the warden’s crap list. His crime? He’s ACCUSED of kicking a drug dealer to death, but since no one in jail is really guilty, he keeps up his denial as reporter Sam Fried (Chris Pfingsten) grills him for a scoop. While he types away on a ribbonless typewriter, his neighbor Bobby Rayburn (Pigott) babbles on about white supremacy from the spaciousness of a death row cell. Backwoods and a bit retarded, he burnt 37 blacks to death in a racist attack, so The Times thinks a little less of him. We like our villains, but only if their villainy is exactly the right way. Both are scheduled to die, and while Brennan works the system, Rayburn gladly admits his action, hoping to see Jesus real soon. Who’s the better man? Neither, really, they both failed society in a big way, and as a group we cannot tolerate either sort of sin.
It’s tough to make light of the situation, but Graham’s clever script blossoms as a black comedy under Jorie’s deft touch. Pigott shows a real knack for the hillbilly Aryan roll, playing it as an enthusiastic puppy with no moral qualms about what he’s done and willing to do again. Howard’s Brennan connives and glosses over the horrors of his crime as well as the crimes of the executed as he writes their obituaries. They may have been mass murderers outside, but inside they are one and all pillars of the community. Guarding the jail birds is the outstanding Christine Decker as Shawna DuChamps, tough prison guard and Brennan’s only real friend. Pfingsten’s reporter reads a bit more ambiguously. He might be genuinely interested in Brennan’s plight, or might be looking for a sensational story, or slumming a bit, but either way, he makes very definite moral judgments on the people he reports on, journalistic detachment be damned.
The death penalty is one of the polarizing issues in America, and the hypocrisy of both poles shows clearly in “Coyote.” Those who support it often seek vengeance, and the issue of proper application of the ultimate punishment often becomes trivialized. Those who oppose it often choose to ignore the brutality of the crime, romanticizing the guilty even if they would fight tooth and nail to keep them out of their neighborhoods. In the middle sit the two groups who deal with the situation on a daily basis – the judged and their keepers. Both are human, and both are animals. It’s just not always where either of them sits on a daily basis.
For more information on Orlando Theater Project, please visit http://www.otp.cc ◼
