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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Review: SwordPlay: A Play of Swords

Katilin Morrow, Conor Bradbury in Swordplay: A Play of Swords, Sex T-Rex. Photo supplied.

SwordPlay: A Play of Swords (Stage 37, Suzanne Thibadeau Auditorium, La Cité francophone)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

With SwordPlay: A Play of Swords, the Toronto comedy troupe Sex T-Rex delivers live theatre with something everyone secretly wants: a video game on legs, with references they can’t fail to get.

That they do this, with pizzaz, on a bare stage using only five people with the gift of the gab, feathered hats, tights, rubber rapiers wielded with ruthless brio … well, that’s the kind of low-budget ingenuity that fuels improv comedy and fringe festivals world-wide. 

Inventive physicality, shameless pop-culture pilfering from sources like The Three Musketeers or Game of Thrones or The Princess Bride … that’s the engine of this zestful high-speed swashbuckler. The secrets of the plot, in all its daft convolutions, are safe with me: I couldn’t explain it even if I weren’t being held captive by a fire-breathing dragon.

Suffice it to say that classic scenarios of the thrust-and-parry genre are invoked, and stitched up with lavish outbreaks of swordplay. A kidnapped princess, abducted by someone nefarious related to someone royal, is in need of rescue. De-frocked swordsmen, in need of redemption after that whole sorry Roland fiasco (don’t ask), set forth on a heroic rescue mission — of the princess and their reputation — on the all-for-one one-for-all plan. They defy the auguries, crazy odds, unexpected obstacles, cheap-theatre limitations, mistaken identity crises, the new political realities, self-esteem issues. Did I mention the fire-breathing dragon?

As someone says, “you could have married a similar-looking girl with darker hair and no back story.” But no, my friends, if life were that simple, there would be no need for fancy fight choreography or warnings about “cartoonish violence and adult language.” 

The cast — Jon Blair, Conor Bradbury, Julian Frid, Kaitlin Morrow, Seann Murray — attack with gusto. The proper term for their kind of loopy, winking attachment to something flimsy is zany. And zany is fun, in a pure fringe-y 60-minute-max sort of way.

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe. 

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Fringe review: Drunk Girl

Thea Fitz-James in Drunk Girl. Photo by Dahlia Katz.

Drunk Girl (Stage 13, Old Strathcona Public Library)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

“Carpe diem!” beams the high-spirited woman before us, presiding over a selection of bottles. 

In the well-stocked repertoire of cautionary tales with sadder-but-wiser chasers, Thea Fitz-James’ solo show isn’t just one for the road. Drunk Girl, it turns out, is a smart, challenging show that doesn’t just sip the risky high-test stuff (and spit it out when no one’s looking), but declares bottom’s up.

The Fringe is full of solo shows that allude to complexity and cultural contradictions. Drunk Girl actually takes them on — in surprising ways that don’t include resolving them. It’s brave and kind of feisty that way.

“Let’s take a gander, shall we?” grins Fitz-James, charismatic and cordial, as she flips open her yearbook. She’s funny. And we’re with her on that classic threshold of maximum possibility: For a small-town Quebec girl and her classmates, “probable destination” is  mostly “anywhere but here.”  

In the course of Drunk Girl, amusement — she calls it “nostalgic whimsy” — turns to disappointment, underscored by a rage that masquerades as high spirits but is more like profound sadness.

It’s charted in a steady escalation of onstage drinks, and ever more expansive annotations, as our college-girl protagonist and her party-girl alter-ego come up, time and time again, from different angles, against something confounding  and irreducible. The fun that empowers you, as a young woman out to participate on equal footing in the world, also penalizes you.

“I am the queen of Ladies’ Night!” declares the party girl who drinks with her friends because she can (and why shouldn’t she since boys can and do and will?). “Alcohol is my fuckin’ revolution!” The professional grad who doesn’t drink at conferences — except white wine, which doesn’t really count, right? — invokes Kafka, and “conceptual” drinking games.

The alter-egos come together in a terrible moment, where only the feeling of violation is unequivocal. “No is an extraordinarily complicated word when you’re drunk,” she says.

Fitz-James has such an easy, amiable instant rapport with the audience that you almost don’t realize the high-risk zones into which Drunk Girl sallies forth. One is an audience-participation chug-a-lug that seems to startle even the performer. The other — and this is only partly successful I think — is the summing up by the playwright.

Certainly she’s earned it. She’s done the research, and presented chunks of it, too. But the show is perhaps vivid and strong enough on its own to just leave us with its provocative, combative ideas and the poetry that surrounds them.

“Sometimes I feel like the Titanic — big, beautiful, too big to fail….” She is. 

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe. 

  

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Fringe review: Prophecy

Carmen Nieuwenhuis in Prophecy, Impossible Mongoose. Photo supplied.

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

Prophecy  (Stage 31, Strathcona Baptist Church)

“Ignorance can be bliss, but knowledge is not power,” Prophecy tells us in this vivid meditation on a violent male world seen through the eyes of women. They see destruction coming and know its consequences.

Last time out, Impossible Mongoose, an adventurous Edmonton indie tore into a zany, breathlessly high-speed five-generation chronicle of terrible behaviour in a dysfunctional family. In Jessy Ardern’s The Fall of the House of Atreus, the years of the Trojan War flew by in madcap minutes.

With Ardern’s witty and powerful new play, Impossible Mongoose returns to that war. In a powerhouse performance from newcomer Carmen Nieuwenhuis, we meet a succession of women whose tragedy is to see ahead in time and know too much. The poster child for this long-distance vision is Cassandra, the clever Trojan princess whose god-given gift of prophecy comes with a stinger: she will never be believed. 

In Corben Kushneryk’s production, Cassandra is reduced by the backlash from her peculiar talent — “was/ is/ will be… death”  — to re-purposing assorted stuff from a janitor’s closet to re-tell the story of destruction of her country and her family in an unending war. The rationale for this storytelling concept isn’t quite clear; a minor tweak could fix that, I think.

“This will be my father,” she says picking up the bucket that stands in for Priam. Her brother Hector gets to be a mop.

We meet Cassandra’s tart-tongued mother Hecuba, with her worldly edge of cynicism — again nailed by the resourceful Nieuwenhuis. She describes her son Paris — whose mad-pash for Menelaus’s glamorous but slutty wife Helen will ignite the Trojan War — a hat with feathers on it, “the human fascinator, beautiful but useless.”

We meet Andromache, the beleaguered foreign-born widow of Hecuba’s son Hector, “a queen with no king.” And we meet another woman with a tumultuous history of exploitation by the military men around her. “I practise getting smaller; eventually I will disappear,” says the concubine Briseis who, in Nieuwenhuis’s performance, does seem to be shrinking before our very eyes. .

The atmospheric lighting, from flashlights and footlights, has a kind of homespun ghostliness about it; it casts distorted large-scale shadows of a turbulent historical epic on the wall behind the women.   

“Your job is to tell the truth when no one is listening…. That’s what keeps you human.” The ending, which flings Prophecy into the immediate present, is a punch to the solar plexus. 

As seen at the Winnipeg Fringe.

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