On the intricate loop of time: The Approach, a Fringe review

Posted on August 23, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

The Approach, Trunk Theatre. Photo supplied.

The Approach (Stage 8, Old Strathcona Performing Arts Centre)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

This unsettling, mysteriously intricate play by the Irish playwright/screenwriter Mark O’Rowe, is brought to the Fringe by Trunk Theatre, an Edmonton indie with an archive full of distinguished choices from the international repertoire on both sides of the Atlantic.

The Approach happens entirely at a cafe table: two chairs, two cups of coffee. A third chair hangs over the stage. We meet three women, but only two at a time, in shifting permutations and alliances, in scenes separated by years. Two of them are sisters; all three were roommates in their younger years.

Each scene is an ebb and flow: banal small talk that surges and subsides, bits of memory, gossip, the daily minutiae, the presence or absence of men in their lives. It has the convincing texture and rhythm of real-life coffee conversation in Amy DeFelice’s production, starring the excellent Twilla McLeod, Kendra Connor and Julie Golosky. But, OK, there’s conversational sotto voce and then, (for those of us sitting near the back, at least) downright inaudible. Try to sit close.

And each scene ends with the promise of getting together soon, meet-ups that we feel sure will never happen, as confirmed in the time lapses between scenes.

What emerges, as the scenes unfold, in the tapestry of friendship and love, are betrayals, disappointments, treachery, evasions, lies, grievances (especially a crucial estrangement between the sisters, pivoting on a certain man). Happiness comes and leaks away.  There are inconsistencies and contradictions; there are changes of mind, and nostalgia for what’s been lost. And, disturbingly, their memories start to bleed into each other and mingle. Are all the women somehow on the same loop? Are they somehow co-opting each other’s memories?

This is a play you’ll want to discuss.

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Under the skin and into the bone: Anatomica, a Fringe review

Posted on August 23, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

Amica Hunter in Anatomica, Edmonton Fringe 2023. Photo supplied.

Anatomica: A Comedy about Meat, Bones & The Skin You’re In (Stage 22, Holy Trinity Anglican Church)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

At a pinch you could call Anatomica standup. Maybe. In their weirdly captivating solo comedy, Portland’s Amica Hunter seems to invite that thought in their easeful, funny, disarming way with the audience. Literally dis-arming, actually, since Anatomica peels away skin after skin, limb after limb, in an evolutionally exploratory downward spiral through bone and nerve, claw and pincher, till it arrives at the worm’s eye view of the world.

Standup? Well, in the off-centre entrance scene of the Fringe, the star of the show does arrive onstage sitting, scooching backwards actually, self-propelled — legs only, no arms —  on a chair. This bearded person communicates to us by whispering in the ear of individual audience members with a long tube, and they pass it along.

Anatomica is a comedy masquerading as performance art masquerading as standup. The question Hunter asks us at the outset, as they strip off layer after layer to the skeleton suit level, and past, is “are we comfortable?” On the unforgiving chairs in a Fringe venue, unlikely. In our own skin, possibly unlikelier still. “Any pain today?”

And what ensues, is partly a confessional, humorous and good-humoured, of a life lived in a body with chronic pain, and the elaborate preparations it takes for that body to achieve repose. And partly Anatomica is the weird, seductive pursuit of “a wild question, a freak- person question” we might never have asked ourselves. There are three types of skeletons, we learn — exo- (crawfish) endo- (our human type), and “hydrostatic” (the kind worms have). What’s the best kind in which to exist?

Needless to say, this thought has all kinds of metaphorical, not say existential, resonances. Hunter, who’s the farthest thing from ponderous, leaves them with us, and so will I. But it’s also a science learning experience (if science lessons ever stepped outside their own comfort zone and had empathetic charm and a sense of humour).

Hunter’s muse works in original similes. The directionless scuttle of her aquatic pet, a coconut crab, is “like a cheap pick-up truck with no shocks.” Its mouth was “like you cracked open a grandfather clock.” And they’re ready to demonstrate life forms accordingly.

There’s a funny sort of category-resistant brilliance about this strange, reflective piece.

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The siren call of a thriller, built inside a comedy: The Cabin on Bald Dune, a Fringe review

Posted on August 23, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

The Cabin on Bald Dune (Stage 11, Varscona Theatre)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

In this adept new thriller by Jezec Sanders, the set-up is comedy, with a slight undertow of mystery and a ripple of unease that play under its surfaces.

Two old friends meet up in an isolated cabin on an island for “some conceptualizing” about their new business venture, a restaurant. Clara (Jenny McKillop), who runs one herself, arrives first, rehearsing her thank you’s in advance. Jeannie (Kristi Hansen), who’s dressed for the boardroom, sweeps in and takes charge, a tidal wave of A-type charm and playfulness. “You look aaah-mazing!”

In April Banigan’s production, the two expert actors take charge of the comedy of the moment, in ways that are absolutely convincing (and funny). And the dynamic between the characters gradually leans outside the bounds of the comic set-up. “What’s new with you?” trills Jeannie, with that recognizable high-beam of attentiveness. Clara is slightly taken aback. “For the last 20 years?

The Cabin on Bald Dune plays with our expectations, in ways so subtle we might barely notice, moment by moment, and can easily dismiss if we do. Sanders’ dexterous script gives us that option, which we share with McKillop’s wary but willing Clara. There’s  something not quite right, an effect enhanced by a growing sense, calibrated for the unease factor, that the inhabited island might not be. Uninhabited, that is. Hansen’s Jeannie, energetic and persuasive, seems oddly unconcerned.

“Risk is the key to success…. Who said that?” says Jeannie brightly “Was it you?” ventures Clara. “Technically Zuckerberg….  But I said something similar.”

Sanders is a witty writer, with a sharp ear for funny dialogue. His script is skilfully underwritten, far from word-choked. Which is fun for two actors with first-rate comic timing, and for director Banigan, who knows the value of pauses and silence. As for the story, it’s built on the unsettling question of why the characters are there in the first place. Is it the siren call of profit? The lure of adventure? Redemption? Like Clara, we’re called upon to reassess at every moment.

Thrillers have a delicate, teeter-y architecture, as rigorously challenging in their way as farces. And, my fringer friends, there are so many things I can’t tell you, for your own good, about this one, built layer upon layer.  Suffice it to say that every time a wave of oceanic fear threatens to wash over the island, the play dangles you a paddle board, so to speak, and tells you not to worry. Ha.

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Feeling better in a time of feeling bad: This Won’t Hurt, I Promise You. A Fringe review

Posted on August 22, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

Elena Belyea in This Won’t Hurt, I Promise, Tiny Bear Jaws, Edmonton Fringe 2023. Photo supplied

This Won’t Hurt, I Promise (Stage 8, Old Strathcona Performing Arts Centre)

By Liz Nicholls. 12thnight.ca

“I’m sorry about, you know…. says Elena Belyea, trailing off and gesturing vaguely towards, well, everything. “There is a lot to be mad about.” And be anxious about, and sleepless about.

We all feel it, a world gone unrecognizably toxic and mean (especially if you’re LGBTQ+).  The feeling of end times upon us has gone into our bones. Getting mad has tired us out and frayed our human edges.

In her new solo show This Won’t Hurt, I Promise, billed as “a standup hybrid,” the playwright/actor’s goal is, she says, to give us “something special …  the best 60 minutes of (our) lives” as an antidote. The setup is stand-up (and she’s a natural); the arc of the show nudges it out of that territory. This is a show where the audience gets presents; I won’t say more.   

Belyea, who has a welcoming warmth about her, has funny stories, personal ones with the ring of authenticity, to talk to us about anxiety. She’s written about anxiety before now, in plays like Miss Katelyn’s Grade Threes Prepare For The Inevitable or I Don’t Even Miss You. Post-pandemic, when she tells us about anxiety-generators — like advice from a financial banker (hey, you just need to make more money), or bedbugs, or entertainment choices that rule out anything that’s gonna hurt — it’s her appreciation of the absurdity built into the everyday that makes her smile and us laugh.

As a wordsmith (we know this from the crackling dialogue in her plays), she likes to talk things through fast, and loop back, adjusting a turn of phrase, editing thoughts on the fly. As applied to stand-up, it’s an appealing delivery.   

The show starts in the small — her own 4’11” frame for example and teeny feet — and extrapolates. And if you figure, as I did at the outset, that the title is ironic — it sounds like the fake-soothing, let-your-guard-down advice from, say, a dentist just about to jab a sabre into your cheek — you’d be wrong. It’s not like that at all.

This is all about feeling better in a time of feeling bad. And Belyea gradually takes the show into her own professional world of theatre, complaints about over-sensitive audiences, and the rise of anti-queer legislation. “What can I do with my anger?” she wonders.

This show, as you’ll find out, is one possibility. It’s built on empathy.

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‘It was a fine night for murder’. The FAMILY CROW: A Murder Mystery. A Fringe review

Posted on August 22, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

Adam Proulx and Horatio P. Corvus in The FAMILY CROW: A Murder Mystery, Edmonton Fringe 2023. Photo by Dahlia Katz.

The FAMILY CROW: A Murder Mystery (Stage 14)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

Think about it: there’s a certain improbable ambition about any solo murder mystery onstage: the narration, the detective, the suspects, the planting of clues, the withholding of clues, the diverting of clues…. The demands are beyond human.

Well, exactly. The weird, cuckoo brilliance of this funny show by Toronto’s Adam Proulx, is that one large crow, the impressively feathered Horatio P. Corvus (“sorter outer of murders” by trade) is in charge of the investigation. And he isn’t just some fly-by-night narrator. Horatio plays all the characters, an all-crow cast list of suspects. Which makes The FAMILY CROW a bona fide theatrical caws célèbre.

Ah, and by the way, Horatio, a crow with a formidable beak, a resonant delivery, and a manic glitter in his eye, is attached to virtuoso puppeteer/playwright Proulx, an artist of many voices and an apparently limitless supply of puns. So, a tale of “horror, mystery, betrayal, murder” and puns: it is an unusual delicacy. And in Byron Laviolette’s production it happens on a shadowy stage lit, ingeniously, by five gooseneck desk lamps, with assistance in feather-ruffling from an audience member armed with a fan.    

The deceased, laid out in the family room chez Crow, is eldest son and heir Russell Crow, a military hero and “a bird of exceptional talons.” And since his murder, “under their very beaks,” seems to be an inside job, the family members, starting with right-wing patriarch Edgar Allan Crow, are prime suspects.

All the trappings are there: interviews with each suspect, denials, the analysis of alibis, and in the grand “Agatha Crowstie” tradition a pièce de résistance group confrontation in the drawing room.

The plot is a clever high-flier, and the writing is a stylish delight. And what fun it is to see such verbal and physical cross-species dexterity onstage.

If you miss this one, it’s your funeral.

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In this comic gem, meet the ultimate outsiders: Rat Academy, a Fringe review

Posted on August 22, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

Dayna Lea Hoffmann and Katie Yoner in Rat Academy, Batrabbit Productions. Pghoto supplied.

Rat Academy (Stage 23, Holy Trinity Anglican Church)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

Face it, cats have had their day (and night and decades) onstage, ingratiating themselves with the public. What of the rat, the ultimate outsider, marginalized, up against a hostile world for their very survival, especially in Alberta? Everyday’s an existential crisis when you’re a rat.

In Rat Academy, a captivating, wonderfully imagined clown show from the duo of Dayna Lea Hoffmann and Katie Toner, we meet two, in an alley. Ever seen a rat shrug? Fingers (Hoffman), the scrappier, more street savvy of the pair, glares suspiciously at us: “why are they in my house?.” Let’s just say it’s not his (pronouns up for grabs) first block party.

Rat Academy, Batrabbit Productions, Edmonton Fringe 2023

Shrimp (Yoner) is white, a bit fluffy, rabbity (to mix our species metaphors), dazed, a veritable Candide of a rodent — an escapee from the lab out in the world and (dangerously) ready to make friends among us.

Fingers will have none of it. He undertakes his pal’s worldly education, with props at hand in the garbage can and pilfered cheese “for special occasions.” Forget self-esteem therapy; this isn’t rodent Beckett, for god’s sake. This is practical paws-on pedagogy from the street (er, the alley)I , with lessons like How 2 Steal (a comic classic, from the Three Stooges tradition), How 2 Sniff, How 2 Fight.

The worldly vs. innocent dynamic is very funny, expertly established and sustained (along with rat voices). And so is the way the characters interact with the audience. Shrimp is a distractible student, who keeps flunking every night school course at the academy, and we laugh sympathetically. Fingers, the fierce one, on a short fuse getting ever shorter, is increasingly exasperated with his protegé — and with us, for our reactions. The more he hears the Awww of cuteness, the more he rolls his eyes. “O my god. Come on!”

Both Hoffmann and Toner are responsive; these rats are light on their feet, and quick on the uptake. There’s rat shit, true, but nobody sings Memory. The interview section, in which our rodents venture into the audience with a magic 8-ball, is a riot.

I know you’ll have questions, about friction in the teacher-student relationship, etc. In a world that doesn’t give a rat’s ass about outsiders, can the rat demi-monde transcend personality conflict? C’mon, see the show. It’s a masterly little comic gem.

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Is there such a thing as feminist porn? Lady Porn, a Fringe review

Posted on August 22, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

Kristin Johnston in Lady Porn, Whizgiggling Productions, Edmonton Fringe 2023. Photo supplied

Lady Porn (Stage 2, Backstage Theatre)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

Is there such a thing as feminist porn? That’s a tricky question put to us by Lady Porn.

And here’s a couple of soft lobs that Trevor Schmidt’s new play for Whizgiggling Productions slams into the back court. Does porn count as feminist if there’s an all-female cast and crew? Is the born-again Christian in the cast off the hook if she’s just doing it for the cash and her husband is in favour of it? Do you score any feminist cred if you call a movie a film?

The characters are a trio of former porn stars. Jill (Kristin Johnston) is producing and directing what she insists will be “female-centric,” an “art film” with, OK, “some hard-core elements” to nail the funding.

Cheryl Jameson in Lady Porn, Whizgiggling Productions, Edmonton Fringe 2023. Photo supplied

Bonnie (Cheryl Jameson), whose stage name was Bunny Velvet, left the biz when she married a guy she met in a porn cast. They found the Lord, gave up “depravity and sin,” and now Kevin’s a pastor with a ministry. Bonnie is back in the biz, only temporarily of course, because their double-garage needs a new roof and plumbing is expensive. Kevin says that God says it’s OK.   

This slow-moving play opens, curiously, with long, explanatory, self-justifying monologues from Jill and Bonnie, the former revealing a certain evasiveness on all details (the backers want to remain anonymous) and the latter exuding pieties. They seem to be well-established positions.

Michelle Todd in Lady Porn, Whizgiggling Productions. Photo supplied

It’s no accident the most appealing character is veteran porn star Denyse (Michelle Todd), with 4,000 titles in her resumé. She’s the most honest for one thing, and also the most succinct. No big monologues for Denyse. She just says breezily “I’m up for anything!” from time to time.

The performances in Schmidt’s production are vivid from all three actors. And the script is not without its witty lines as you might expect. But once the characters have declared their positions, at length in the case of Jill and Bonnie, there’s not much room for dramatic development. They can only repeat them, with variations.

Lady Porn has a built-in hypocrisy detector, whether the pieties are feminist or Christian. Only Denyse, the business woman who declares freely that porn is a business, comes off clean.

 

 

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The calming effect of drawing, conversation, and silence: the unique experiment of Muse, a Fringe review

Posted on August 21, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

Cameryn Moore, “muse,” Little Black Book Productions. Photo by Hassan Ghoncheh.

muse: an experiment in storytelling and life drawing (Stage 5, Acacia Hall)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

There’s a uniquely welcoming show at the Fringe that’s actually about audience participation, an experiment in experimenting … with yourself.

As a non-artist whose hands-on art experience is stick-persons on stickies, and the back row of Art History 201: the Renaissance, I was curious. As someone who’s never even held a piece of charcoal, much less been in a life-drawing class with a live nude model, I wondered what it would be like to draw someone.

So I borrowed a sketch book, and got offered a piece of charcoal (there are art supplies, while they last) at the door. The only introduction offered by the model, Cameryn Moore (a playwright/ actor in the theatre side of her life), was to list the number of poses she was going to do, some one-minute, some three-, some 10-.

If you ask her questions, which Moore invites you to do, you’ll find Muse a memoir, and a fascinating one, about a life spent since 2017 in Berlin as a theatre artist, a nude life-drawing model, and a Size X-large person in a judgmental culture. If there weren’t questions, presumably, Muse wouldn’t be a memoir and Moore would be fine with silence, after a couple of first-hand stories she offers at the outset, to make things not be weird for an audience used to coming to the Fringe for a “show.” But who wouldn’t want to ask a nude model some questions if they got the chance?

Ah, the questions. A funny, candid, and thoughtful sort, Moore  attended to the questions, and considered them before answering. Actually, my fellow draw-ers asked questions I wanted to hear the answers to. She considered them before answering. Nude models aren’t allowed to shrug, of course. But Moore was relaxed about conversing in this way, and so we relaxed too.

And gradually, both in questions and in the companionable silences, we get the idea that being a sculptural nude body has been validating, transcending, for someone the culture is very inclined to marginalize. I wouldn’t dream of using the f-word (fat, I mean). Moore does.

The 60 minutes went by in a flash. And at the end, in “the community gallery” of our drawings on the floor (if we felt like revealing them) for everyone to wander around and see, there was a kind of group ease and joyful spirit.

Incidentally, for what it’s worth, it turned out I don’t have a clue how to draw. There’s no transforming dénouement like that to my expedition. But it was a fun, easeful, and  experience. And I wouldn’t have missed it.

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Teasing ‘High Art’ into submission: The Merkin Sisters: Deux, a Fringe review

Posted on August 21, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

Ingrid Hansen and Stéphanie Morin-Robert in The Merkin Sisters: Deux, Edmonton Fringe. Photo supplied

The Merkin Sisters: Deux (Stage 13, Service Credit Union Theatre, La Cité francophone)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

But is it Art?

The Merkin Sisters, that sibling duo of hirsute avant-gardistes, are back at the Fringe after six years to tease and tickle that Ultimate Question once more in their follow-up show.    

And those Merkins (Ingrid Hansen and Stéphanie Morin-Robert) know how to make an entrance. Unsmiling, they jostle through the audience in the galleries butt first, in bathrobes and towel mohawks — direct from the gender-neutral shower room so to speak — to get to the stage. That’s where high-style robotic choreography gives way to a version of Swan Lake. And that’s where there’s an explosion of pubic hair the likes of which haven’t been seen here since they were last in town.

It’s performance art that’s a funny, deadpan satire of performance art. If you’re asking, but what does it mean? you are so on the wrong track. The Merkin Sisters makes playful, inventive physical comedy from free association, unhinged from causality or motivation or logic, glowering all the while. And they fool around, hilariously, with a fundamental principle of the avant-garde: if you don’t find it baffling it’s not High Art (maybe only medium-low to low,). “Some people ask us why we do what we do (moment of silence). And what it is we do do,” a Merkin asks us solemnly.

Exactly. There’s a veritable catalogue of theatrical devices to jar you out of your staid middlebrow lives and present you the chance to ask another High Art question (while laughing): But is it ironic?

The Merkins are scornful; they cast withering looks our way. They’re not here to ingratiate themselves with the audience in one of those interactive shows where there’s no right answer. This is High Art. Dancing Lycra lipstick tubes that are their own mouths, a cutting-edge development in contemporary puppetry. And there are appearances at perplexing moments by old-fashioned puppets too, There’s a ne plus ultra masturbation scene for two. There’s an amplitude of body hair, and a birth scene that’s obligatory in the metaphor lexicon of audience interaction performance art.

And every once in a while, a Merkin reaches into a jar of little pieces of paper on which we’ve all answered a question about the first time we lost (fill in the blank) — and annotates tersely: “Pandemic Art,” “Un-relatable art” and the like.

Actually one of the Merkins, grouchy, has a question too, doubtlessly asked many times in the world of High Art: “why do I always have to play the vagina?” Answer: “because you have the bigger mouth.”

The fun of The Merkin Sisters is to  see physical comedians, and a goofy comic invention, unleashed on Performance Art. You get to see what performance art would look like if it was riotous. If you’ve seen one too many broody Fringe confessionals, this could be your kind of show. Then give yourself an encore: hie yourself to Hansen’s weird and kooky solo show Epidermis Circus.

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Wanna be in a movie by a legendary director? The Method Prix, a Fringe review

Posted on August 21, 2023 by Liz Nicholls

Deanna Fleysher and Brooke Sciacca in The Method Prix. Photo by Sulai Lopez

The Method Prix (Stage 17, Grindstone Theatre)

By Liz Nicholls, 12thnight.ca

“People ask me all the time what it’s like to be a genius artist,” says the legendary Hollywood auteur-director Vincent Prix (Deanna Fleysher), flinging himself into a selection of dramatic sultry poses as he shoots live footage of himself.

He’s greeted us at the door, with an intensity of gaze that positively reeks of artistic greatness. Now we’re in his “studio” to watch genius at work, as the great man makes “a classic of the American cinema” from scratch. And in this latest from L.A.’s Deanna Fleysher (Butt Kapinsky), a “drag clown” whose appetite for risk seems to have no limits — it’s kind of breath-taking and kind of scary — we will find ourselves part of the shoot.

One among us finds a lighting instrument in his hands; another is the make-up person. The caterer has the honour of holding the Prix Perrier till needed. As headshots of contenders appear on the screen, Prix scrambles through the audience on the hunt for a hot young leading man. He rejects one after another — too much Nordic angst, too happy, “too mentally healthy.” And then  “Hollywood wild child” Dylan Thruster (Brooke Sciacca) swaggers up to the stage, with exactly tousled coiffure, and the slightly open-mouthed bring-it pout that models have.

Prix is on fire; he’s found his man boy, his new Brando, his new … well….. But the leading man keeps finding desirable co-stars, his -ex, his L.A. trainer, his love interest (Prix is dismayed), among us, and brings them to the stage. We’re the extras, called upon to invent the scenery as the leads chew it. The fourth wall is long gone, trampled underfoot. It’s chaos — is it art or is it a shambles? — and it’s funny, as Prix works his impulse “Method,” to shoot scenes.

Fleysher’s show, a satire of the movie mythology of the director/creator/genius, is actually built on audience participation, risky in itself, and escalation, even riskier. Scenes Prix creates with us, recorded live on the screen, and live scenes with Dylan Thruster are interspersed with Prix’s fantasy sequences (with songs) about coupling with his leading man. The interplay of live, live feed recording on-, off-, and backstage gets more and more frenzied.

All those Hollywood clichés about making love to the camera? All those theatre clichés about playing with, and not just for, the audience? Fleysher and Sciacca never waver. They’re fearless improvisers both, and they keep upping the ante. The architecture of  The Method Prix is balanced precariously on the epic egos of their characters. And from that infrastructure you can’t quite believe how far they’re unafraid to go.

Funny, original, nervy, and nerve-wracking.

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