Review: The Ballad of Frank Allen

The Ballad of Frank Allen. Photo by Paul Robinson

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

The Ballad of Frank Allen (Stage 13, Old Strathcona Public Library)

In the international register of theatre premises (small-cast musical comedy division), here’s an entry that should get its own citation: what if a tiny man lived in another man’s beard?

In The Ballad of Frank Allen, a methodical janitor doing his job in a lab accidentally flips a switch and gets miniaturized. Frank finds himself in residence in the beard of a slacker dude named Al, currently working at Cheezy Meatz. If you think male-bonding premises have been wrangled as far as they can possibly go, think again. An unusual — let’s be bold and call it unique — buddy/odd-couple roommate sitcom is born.

Frank the janitor (Shane Adamczak the playwright) is resilient. He  assesses his situation and looks on the bright side. Since Al is such a sloppy eater, “I eat like a king.” He sets up a makeshift hammock in the beard forest. And he sets about training the vaguely aspirational but hopelessly ineffectual Al “not to do stupid things,” particularly vis-a-vis women.

As for Al, he’s completely unaware of his new companion and lifestyle coach until the night of the tequila shots. Al can suddenly hear Frank, but only when they’re both drunk, a prototype for male-bonding adventures world-wide.   

This kooky sitcom has to struggle to live up to its premise, and never really does, in truth. The plot strains at the seams to be sufficiently outlandish and bizarre. Al’s series of job descriptions are one-liners inserted to be give the piece some comic heft.

But the ballads, both solos and duets, are well-crafted, and inspired. They’re intense, performed with gusto by Adamczak and Lafrance. Some are touching. Some have the kind of loony commitment to the material that seems exactly the right way to spin a premise that wears its quirkiness up front, bold, and, er, full facial. 

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe.

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Fringe review: Picnics at the Asylum

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

Picnics at the Asylum (Stage 9, Telus Phone Museum)

Angela Neff, Picnics at the Asylum. Photo supplied.

The eccentric character who gets conjured in this personal memoir is loud, colourful, fun-loving, generous with his affections. He loves his kids; they adore him. He sings too loud; he drives too fast; he drinks too much; he has too many kids. He’s a no-small-measures no-rules guy, larger than life in a life-sized world. And there’s big charisma in that.

As we learn in this amusing and scary solo memoir from San Francisco’s Angela L. Neff, the man is her dad. And even his downside is big: he’s completely unpredictable. He veers wildly from manic exuberance to destructiveness and catatonic melt-down. His life is a declension into chaos and he spreads chaos around him.

And in the end, madness will unravel everything, even love.

It’s an arresting novel-sized story. And in theatre that’s a tough assignment, setting up a world of adult impulse and largesse, as seen through the eyes of a little kid. The vision belongs to young Angela, an observer in a gaggle of seven siblings jockeying for their dad’s favours in a dad-centric family.

Neff charts a gradual evolution of the watchful into the wary. The starting point is her small, quiet, unhistrionic voice; she doesn’t try too hard. So departures into her dad’s loud Johnny Cash imitations, or the funny but horrifying times he takes his kids along to his AA meetings, have an extra dimension: what was appealing becomes ever more embarrassing.

What I like about the show is, in a way, what it doesn’t do. It doesn’t presume to explain the dad’s mental illness, or his strange attraction to Catholicism; it would have to violate the kid perspective to do that. But the arc whereby he ends up a ragged, raging street preacher isn’t outlandish; there’s a love of performing that seems to turn viral, or rancid, in him.

Picnics at the Asylum doesn’t explain itself. In a Fringe world loaded with confessionals that are insistent about what conclusions we should draw, this is a show that, impressively, trusts us with a coming-of-age story from a fellow observer. And lets us think what we will about loss. 

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe.

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Fringe review: How I Learned To Hug

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

How I Learned To Hug (Stage 26, The Almanac)

At the outset of his riotous one-man comedy/memoir How I Learned To Hug, the uniquely manic Australian performer Jon Bennett reveals the Montreal airport encounter when Security discovered a number of unexpected items in his carry-on.

One was pepper spray. One was a copy of the showbiz manual 99 Ways To Tell A Story.

It takes an entire coming-of-age saga, retrieved from an archive of  past loves, age six onward, to explain the former. As for the latter, you’ll feel absolutely certain that the uniquely pellmell race-against-primal-chaos cadence and delivery, the nose for absurdity, the spiralling infrastructure of Bennett’s storytelling, won’t be catalogued anywhere in the official 99. Or the appendix, for that matter. It’s entirely off the grid.

The story begins with the breathless Bennett detained in a security chamber, under interrogation by a female version of Jay Z. He tells her the story, and she’s a hostile audience.

Soon, we’re immersed in the very funny, unexpectedly rueful and poignant account of the young Bennett’s gains and losses, near-misses, and fiascos in the fraught world of love and sex. 

“Close your eyes and imagine me losing my virginity,” he advises us at one point. Invitations like that aren’t a dime a dozen, even at the Fringe. Bennett thinks nothing of asking people “when was the first time you got sexually titilllated?”. And there’s a kind of offhand, shrugging confessional charisma about him, not to mention a line in rueful self-deprecation, that makes people cough up a memory as often as not. For a performer of such restless energy, his rapport with the audience is surprisingly instantaneous, unthreatening, and relaxed. 

Bennett, the reigning monarch of the Power Point, assembles photos of early girlfriends, family members, his first condoms, love letters dating from the time of his six-year-old self. And this amusingly non-airbrushed documentation — has Bennett ever thrown out a single snapshot? — lends a kind of home-made authenticity to proceedings. 

It’s Bennett’s unexpected aversion to public displays of affection that’s the axis of his story. It has roots in heartbreak. And it will be overcome in an unexpectedly exhilarating way. Bennett, a connoisseur of personal embarrassment, expertly negotiates a satisfying blend of exasperation, outrage, and emotional heat to savour, with us, the moment of triumph.

If you’re paralyzed by the F-bomb, this is not the show for you. Otherwise, you’ll laugh out loud, and wince a little. I did.

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe.

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Fringe review: Get Me The F#ck Out Of Edmonton

 

“Get Me The F#ck out of Edmonton” – and other ramblings of a fringe has-been (Stage 8, Old Strathcona Performing Arts Centre)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

Here’s the thing about Wes Borg: he is Fringe history — from the top of his red curly moptop (which I seem to recall comparing to a lopsided Brillo pad) to his bare feet.

This ageless party arrives back in his home town fresh from a July run of Get Me The F#ck Out of Edmonton at the Winnipeg Fringe, where he’d first performed 30 years ago, as he tells a late-night audience there.

It was tailored to the local crowd, replete with musings about Keanu Reeves, who once did Hamlet at the Royal Manitoba Theatre Centre. That’s the enormous stage where Borg was standing alone, barefoot as usual, listing warnings, including “foul language, puppet genitalia, and an accordian; someone will play the accordian.”

Get me f#ck back to Edmonton. The actor/playwright/musician/comic and the Edmonton Fringe in Edmonton go back. Way back. Borg was a member of the late-lamented four, five, or two-person experimental comedy troupe Three Dead Trolls in a Baggie. “We weren’t as good as you remember,” he tells the Winnipeg audience.

It seems only right that this impish, insurrectionist spirit, ensconced for the last eight years in Victoria (he says he went for a week, and couldn’t afford to leave), should return at Fringe time  to the city he got the f#ck out of.   

The show is an homage of sorts to the free spirit Bird who passed away in 2009 at the age of 41. It’s Borg in cabaret mode, with keyboard, guitars, and an assortment of funny original songs, anecdotes, diverse annotations and musings, amusing free associative detours, derailments of trains of thought.

You’ll hear I Hate Toronto, which rolled out the shortcomings of everywhere in Canada (except Alberta) and landed the Trolls a six-show CBC contract. Borg’s latest song is a musical tribute to his new wife. “I saw her on the internet,” he says. They were married last fall. “She’s a motorhome…. In B.C. it’s perfectly legal to marry a vehicle.”

He needed a volunteer. “Does anyone here play no instruments whatsoever?” That’s how he picked Tamara for harmonica duties. He has songs denouncing dreams, OS operating systems, slavish political correctness. His introductions are funny; he remembers good times with Bird.

Borg is a relaxed performer, with an unusual tolerance for chaos. His own operating system seems capable of multiple re-boots without seizing up. In Winnipeg, not only was Borg not unduly rattled when the lighting board malfunctioned, he seemed secretly delighted that improv was required.

So, like the Fringe itself, you’ll be taking a chance, embracing the unpredictability factor when you sign on to this show. Veteran fringe-goers won’t want to miss an opportunity for group nostalgia. Newbies may find it all a bit baffling — its principles of “organization” are, er, elusive — but the songs are a hoot. 

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe.

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Fringe review: Edgar Allan

Katie Hartman in Edgar Allan, The Cold Harts. Photo supplied

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

Edgar Allan (Stage 38, Auditorium at Campus Saint-Jean)

“Everything fun is a little bit dangerous,” proposes one of the eerie songs in Edgar Allan. Exactly. And here’s the show to prove it.

In this unnerving little tale of a boy and his doppelganger, the Brooklyn duo Cold Harts devises a cunning way to knot together the strange, haunted life of Edgar Allan Poe and his strange, haunted stories.

The tie that binds is Poe’s William Wilson, in which the title character is pursued by his double, a man with the same name who thwarts his worst impulses. But there are chilling glints of other Poe stories too in the toxic anatomization of boyhood friendship .

On his first day at a boarding school we meet 11-year-old Edgar Allan, an urchin of terrifying precocity tuned to a sinister frequency and played with glittering mania by Katie Hartman. His goal, he tells us with chilling precision (while accompanying himself on the ukulele) is to be, and remain, remarkable. “It is only a matter of time before they yield to my will,” he says of the lesser beings in the student population.

The uber-mensch kid, is in for a shock. His equanimity is shattered when he discovers another student (Nick Ryan) of equally formidable gifts — and the same name. And a lethal competitive instinct is adrenalized by this grave and mysterious person who talks only in a hoarse whisper.

Corvus and Noctua, as they nickname themselves after the crow and the owl, are wary, and inseparable rivals in a tactical war of one-upmanship that seems to bring out the worst in Edgar Allan.  The performances are funny, dark, and sharp-edged as daggers.   

The one set piece in the darkness onstage is an empty oblong door frame. Perfectly Poe. In its sinister way, Edgar Allan plays with the shiver that ripples along along your spine when you look into a mirror and see someone else, or see someone through a doorway and it turns out to be … you.

That double-edged axis of horror haunts the Poe canon. And that’s where this clever little show — playful, dark, and dirty — lives.  

I missed this gem the first time around, in 2015, and even its reprieve visit the next winter. Don’t you make the same mistake, I warn you. It won’t follow you around forever.

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe. 

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Fringe review: The Merkin Sisters

Ingrid Hansen and Stéphanie Morin-Robert in The Merkin Sister. Photo supplied.

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

The Merkin Sisters (Stage 1, Westbury Theatre)

What is art? ask the fractious siblings jockeying for stage supremacy in this raucously inventive satire of contemporary performance art.

The Merkin Sisters (Ingrid Hansen and Stéphanie Morin-Robert, expert physical comedians both) have already prowled the audience at the outset, silent and unsmiling in bathing suits and rubber bathing caps. And they’ve grimly dispensed questions on tiny pieces of paper. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to a sibling?”

Then they’ve repaired to the stage and arranged themselves on beach towels. “Some people ask us why we do what we do. (pause). And what it is we do do….” Portentous whispering ensues.

Ah yes, Art, the ultimate question and the ultimate answer. “What if … your art could last forever?” “What if your art had no name?” “What if your art sold for 20 bucks?” The Merkins brainstorm by artful free-association. And what if your art was a riotous attack on upper-case Art … like The Merkin Sisters?  

The Merkins, paid-up members of the fierce artistic élite, don’t skimp: every known theatrical device is included in their pièce de résistance. There’s artsy puppetry; a white glove pops out in a birth scene. There’s a balletic pas de deux;  there’s a dance in which they bounce off each other’s blow-up balloon bellies. The masturbation sequence has flowers, and a song. The visuals are dominated by hair, lots of it: head wigs that grow into full body wigs, pubic wigs that erupt out of bathing suits, hair balls that get born and grow up.

Naturally, there’s audience participation. The Merkins are imperious and hard to please. “Could the audience please make the sound of waves? And a seagull?” We oblige. “NO! Just one seagull!” Occasionally sibling rivalry can’t be contained by the avant-garde. “Why do I always have to play the vagina?” asks one sister, sulking. Answer: “You have the bigger mouth.”

Hansen and Morin-Robert, who separately have other shows at the Fringe (Instellar Elder and Blindside respectively), are fearless and funny. They’ve evidently seen one too many self-important pieces of Art. This one’s revenge, and it’s teasingly baffling. A show to be savoured by the adventurous Fringe-goer. 

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe.

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Fringe review: Szeretlek: A Hungarian Love Story

Myque Franz and Zita Nyarady in Szeretlek: A Hungarian Love Story. Photo supplied.

Szeretlek: A Hungarian Love Story (Stage 4, Academy at King Edward)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

There is an amiably homemade quality about Szeretlek: A Hungarian Love Story, a modest collage of family anecdotes about a post-war romance.

In it, real-life couple Zeta Nyarady and Myque Franz tell story of the former’s grandparents, a city girl and a village bookworm who met and fell in love when the former got a job teaching in a country school. 

“True stories don’t always have the logic of storytelling,” we are told in Szeretlek. Fair enough, although the logic of boy meets girl, marries girl, starts family line isn’t exactly a wild departure from conventional storytelling. But taking true stories onto a stage and acting them out demands a certain “theatre” logic — and, in truth, something a little more dynamic and propulsive than Toronto’s Grand Salto Theatre delivers in this sweetly unpretentious show.

The opener is a dance number of moderate skill involving a recalcitrant umbrella and old-people masks, deposited at the side of the stage. Although heightened characters — the boy’s imperious mama, who has an inexplicably cartoonish English accent  — appear, masks don’t get much theatrical mileage thereafter. 

Similarly, the other props in the show, a red hat for example, aren’t used with much theatrical pizzaz. The two performers, likeable both, talk to us directly. Franz teaches us to pronounce the title, Hungarian for “I love you,” and to get up dance a Hungarian two-step called the czardas.

Both dances and songs have the feel of something casually improvised, and pasted together — something you might get up to at a family reunion. Neither performer is strong of voice, and the music involves conventional choices. But Nayaradi has an agreeably old-fashioned look about her; Franz couldn’t be more user-friendly with the audience.

It’s a kind of scrapbooking, apparently, of family stories and theatrical devices. And for us, it’s an hour spent in the company of pleasant people, who haven’t quite found a way to incorporate their theatre school skills into a show. 

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe.

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A new adventure, fringe-style: two young actors are turning director at the Edmonton Fringe

Jennifer Spencer, Jenny McKillop, Jenna Dykes-Busby in Myth of the Ostrich. Photo by Mat Busby.

Luc Tellier and Braydon Dowler-Coltman in A Quiet Place. Photo by Mat Simpson.

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

One of the durable strengths of the Edmonton Fringe — something that sets it apart from the legion of fringe spin-offs across the continent — is its organic rooting in the theatre community here. It’s not like that everywhere.

Our coterie of theatre artists fell in love with the Fringe early — and stayed that way. And they still want to be at the Fringe, creating work for it, testing out inspirations, finding an audience, expanding their repertoire of theatrical skills.

Meet two exceptional young Edmonton actors who have risen to the provocation of the Fringe., Kendra Connor and Evan Hall are making their directing debuts at the Fringe with comedies of very different stripe and stretch.   

Which explains why Connor found herself agonizing two weeks ago over the best way for her cast to build a blanket fort onstage in the course of a play. “Hours and hours!” she sighs, “building a fort, deconstructing it, then building it again.” And that was before the experiments with the Christmas lights began.

Connor is an actor: Most recently Edmonton audiences saw her clever and spirited comic performances in Theatre Network’s Irma Voth and Teatro La Quindicina’s I Heard About Your Murder. At the Fringe she’s a director.

The play is Myth of the Ostrich, a three-woman comedy by Canadian playwright Matt Murray that premiered at the 2014 Toronto Fringe. And Connor has  assembled “a three-Jen cast,” as she puts it: Jennifer Spencer, Jenna Dykes-Busby and Jenny McKillop. “Right away it got too confusing,” Connor laughs. “In rehearsal I call them by their characters’ names instead.” Some directorial tactics are clearly meant to be learned by improvising.

“I got to the place, as an actor in rehearsals, where I was thinking ‘I could figure out how to fix that’,” says Connor by way of explaining this new career venture. “By the rules of rehearsal, there’s only so much you can do as an actor; it’s taboo to direct your fellow actors, for example. But I’d be ‘hmmm, how would I do that differently?’”      

For Connor, who was tipped to the play by Edmonton director Brenley Charkow, the appeal of Myth of the Ostrich is that it isn’t “just another three-hander for women,” she says. “What I like about it is (its capture of) female friendship…. I like plays in which women don’t spend time tearing each other down, being catty, fighting over a man; I like plays where women support each other.”

Airswimming, the haunting Charlotte Jones play in which Connor appeared with McKillop last summer, was all about that. Myth of the Ostrich, says Connor of this new Praise Doris venture, “is about moms, parental love, female friendship…. There’s something great about having women onstage, and letting them be hilarious!”

Jennifer Spencer, Jenna Dykes-Busby, Jenny McKillop in Myth of the Ostrich. Photo by Mat Busby.

Spencer plays a liberal, permissive writer whose struggles to finish her book are interrupted in the course of an afternoon by tightly wound conservative type who’s discovered a letter from her son to the writer’s kid. “The afternoon turns to chaos” with the arrival of the “brassy Newfoundland gal” who gets most of the zingers, as Connor describes the situation.

“I’ve been learning a lot about talking to actors,” says Connor of this new turn in a theatre career. “You don’t want to give too many notes too early…. It’s about sitting back and knowing how much to give, how much not to.” 

“When you have actors as strong and competent as the three Jens, you don’t create a performance for them. You watch them make offers, you says ‘amplify this, more of that, but in front of the couch not behind it’.”

“For me, this is a good way to start out as a director,” Connor says. “Not too expansive, not too design-y. Not a fantastical journey. It’s people having a conversation.” And it’s a comedy. “When the rhythm is right, it starts to sparkle.” That’s something she knows all about.

Braydon Dowler-Coltman and Luc Tellier in A Quiet Place. Photo by Mat Simpson.

Every time Evan Hall thought about directing — which he’s  done regularly for a couple of years — he was diverted by the irresistible lure of “getting to be in the play myself.”

“I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be directing if there wasn’t a Fringe,” Hall says cheerfully. “There are a lot of indie companies here, and they have their own creator/directors…. The Fringe makes making your own work acceptable — both the opportunity and covering (a lot of) the cost.

“This is a bit out of my comfort zone. It’s great!”

Hall is making his directing debut with A Quiet Place, an intriguingly mysterious two-hander by actor/playwright Brendan Gall (Alias Godot). “I love plays that ride or die on their actors,” he says. “This is two people having an experience onstage… Two people in a room with a chair and a lightbulb.” 

“It’s a bit Beckett, a lot No Exit,” he says of the existential teaser in which the lights go down on a guy in a blank room, and when they come up, there’s another guy, tied to a chair.

“They don’t remember how they got there, or their names…. They have to figure that out. The play asks more questions than it answers; it’s a puzzle,” says Hall. “Fascinating! A cool little play, and totally do-able at the Fringe.”

He feels lucky to have at his disposal “two actors who are pretty fantastic!” in this Blarney production. Both Braydon Dowler-Coltman and Luc Tellier are, like Hall, actors who have taken up directing (as you’ll elsewhere at the Fringe in To Be Moved and Legoland, respectively). And Hall himself is appearing in Ron Jenkins’ Fringe production of Gruesome Playground Incidents.

“I’ve learned a lot,” says Hall of his new career venture. “I made a lot of mistakes early on. But I’m learning to have my own language, how to communicate with actors. I’d love to do it again!”

“At the Fringe you can just take bigger risks. It’s allowed to try new things!”   

  

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Fringe review: Ain’t True and Uncle False

Paul Strickland in Ain’t True and Uncle False. Photo by Dan R. Winters.

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

Ain’t True And Uncle False (Stage 4, Academy at King Edward)

Here’s a new concept in horticulture: “implied garden.” It’s Will Perjure’s creative Eden of upside-down wine bottles and painted cups, handles skyward, with the sign “Mug Roots: Do Not Dig Up.”

The relationship between Art and Life doesn’t come much more whimsical than in this sly, verbally dexterous show from the Kentucky yarn-spinner Paul Strickland. In Ain’t True And Uncle False, this amiable and puckish heir to the great American Mark Twain storytelling tradition, returns to the Big Fib Trailer Park and Cul De Sac (scene of his hit Papa Squat, which I’m now awfully keen to see).

And he takes us around the place to meet its population of distinctively named tall-tale characters, with their own origin backstories, their own quirks, their own creative pursuits (like goldfish taxidermy), their own collective mythology.

We meet Fay and Brie Cation, for example, Siamese twins born 18 months apart, joined at the hand. We meet Ma and Papa Ganda, the latter the vice-president of the local pea-punching plant.

Pea punchers? They’re the consummate pros who make green peas into the black-eyed kind. We find out that the resourceful Will, who lost his left hand as a little kid — he couldn’t find it anywhere — becomes a pea kicker instead. 

There’s a loony brilliance to Strickland’s distinctive kind of quixotic playfulness. And it’s combined with a metaphorical cast of mind that gives Strickland’s stories, his aphorisms, and his songs a certain homespun philosophical resonance. Which may, after all, be the whole point of storytelling:  “gardens that will never grow, beauty that never dies.”  Storytelling with a distinctive Southern flavour and sneaky smarts. 

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe.

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Fringe review: Staycation

Staycation, White Collar Crimes Theatre. Photo supplied.

Staycation (Stage 2, Backstage Theatre)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

The good thing about being a career conspiracist with a specialty in apocalypses is this: it just takes one. The downside: being right and getting vindicated has a major built-in glitch.  

With Staycation, the agile Portland duo who brought us a couple of screw-up showbiz magicians in Perpetual Wednesday a Fringe or two ago are back, with a messy and meandering physical comedy adventure/vaudeville. It stars a couple of goofball roommates who barricade themselves in their apartment to save themselves from the end of the world. Which is, after all, no reason not to do spirited dance party numbers from time to time.

The clown dynamic is classic: Walter’s the manic bossy one, the obsessive upstager; the bespectacled Bruce is the malleable one with the wheedly voice. Walter, he of the fierce smile and the pointy tinfoil dunce helmet, sees apocalyptic signs everywhere — Dorito-flavoured Mountain Dew? “You’re welcome, Canada!”. Bruce, who wears socks with his Birkenstocks, is on his own career path: dolphin trainer. “Welcome, everyone, to Sea World.”

There’s a sort of bendable “plot,” involving a crack in “the wall” between realities, or our limited human comprehension of cosmic conspiracies, or whatever. Walter and Bruce are forever diving through a plastic curtain, and ending up as cut-out puppets in a kind of shadow-play wonderland ruled by a monster. “OMG, it’s the most beautiful effect I’ve seen at a Fringe!” declares Walter. Actually, it does look quite fancy, in a chaotic sort of way.

Speaking of walls (and the tearing down thereof), in time-honoured vaudeville fashion, the proverbial fourth wall is there to be spray-painted with vaguely topical slightly past-its-best-before jokiness. Or ignored altogether. “That seems like it’ll be pertinent in the next scene.”

There are pratfalls. There are songs. Someone will get slapped by a rubber fish.… You know, that sort of thing. 

It’s an amiable, scrambly entertainment by a couple of hard-working, likeable vaudevillians. Whether you find this riotous, temporarily diverting, or an over-extended very labour-intensive way to be playful depends a bit on your own sense that the end is nigh. I had the middling reaction.

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe

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