By Angie Toomsen
Iowa City - Riverside Theatre, Iowa City’s resident professional theatre company, has launched this year’s Walking the Wire: Monologues at Riverside. Walking the Wire has become an audience favorite in Riverside’s season, as evidenced by the full house on opening night this past Friday.
To those unfamiliar with Walking the Wire, Riverside Theatre puts out a call for ten-minute monologues around a central theme. This year’s theme is “OMG.” Yes, that OMG. The acronym that has earned a place in the “parlance of our times” through its popularity with tweens, texters and Tweeters.
But, lest you assume Walking the Wire is piece-upon-piece of neo-Valleygirl-isms and the truncated dispositions of text-heads, fear not. In actuality, Walking the Wire is about the “Oh My God” moment. That moment—often accompanied by an inhalation of recognition—that inspires any number of emotions and states-of-being, including but not limited to: thrill, anticipation, alarm, wonderment, disconcert, sadness, contrition, prayer, and so on.
From pleading to God over a pregnancy stick to early sexual experiences dashed to budding love, this year’s theme inspired very personal, moving and often hilarious interpretations of the now culturally-ingrained turn-of-phrase.
WTW’s two opening pieces take the “my God” at face value and include The Almighty as a remembered subject of note and silent monologue partner. Devoid of politicking or confrontation, the pieces bring human and experiential perspectives to divisive topics.
In “A Damn Damp Novena,” by Ron Clark, Carrie Houchins-Witt is a soldier mom engaged in a pleasant, albeit one-sided conversation-turned-negotiation with God about her triplet daughters. Of chief concern is her lesbian daughter, who wants to have her child baptized in the church. Houchins-Witt is a warm and confident opener, kicking off the night. The fullness of familial detail in “Novena’s” storytelling is, not surprisingly, reminiscent of Clark’s piece in the 2010 Walking the Wire, “Uncle Leo’s Revenge.” As a side note, Clark’s piece last year also included triplets. Do I sense an ongoing motif? Or a coming anthology?
“The God of ‘Animal Planet,’” by Amanda Petefish Schrag, finds actress Jessica Wilson recalling moments of prayer that have taken place in the bathroom. Praying not to be pregnant, praying to get pregnant, then praying to stay pregnant. Schrag’s piece starts somewhat lighter, arriving at a dark and satisfying surprise conclusion. Wilson’s energy is intimate and honest.
Several pieces touch on “OMG” moments when romantic love is nascent and surprising. Brandon Bruce has a likeable ease as a Philadelphia cabbie recounting the night he won his wife’s heart with a little parking lot chivalry in Seth Bauer’s “Not a Bad Time of It.” Bruce’s authentic warmth as a performer extends to “(That) Guy Meets (That) Girl,” by Laura Nessler, about an endearing, fumbling encounter with a girl who wants to ask him out.
Gwendolyn Rice’s “I Hear Everything” is about a man with hyperacusis, an affliction of extra sensitive hearing. Gifted storyteller, Mike Moran, is a man who hears everything, and, as a consequence, can’t really hear a thing. Moran invites the audience to the refreshing silence of the library archives where he works, and imparts a tender and unexpected encounter with a hushed woman who utters words with great difficulty. This piece is one of the most touching of the evening and I heard a few people around me whisper “wow” and “that was nice” in the closing blackout.
Several of the monologues dealt with early sexual encounters and/or sexual identities crushed by judgment in a time when they aren’t even fully formed. A tragic infringement indeed, though Walking the Wire’s three representative pieces are primarily comedies.
In “The Six Million Dollar Man Monologue” by Joe Jennison, also performed by Moran, a man packing to move encounters a doll he idolized, and an early encounter that shaped his sexual identity. Jennison’s coming-of-age comedy seems as though it could be an excerpt from a longer, one man show even though it stands on its own. I credit this impression in equal parts to writing detail and to Moran’s expansiveness and inclusion of the audience in his performance. Moran embraced the idea that monologues can be dialogues, with live sentient beings who really do want to exchange energy and be acknowledged. Jennison’s piece easily lends itself to such interaction.
A similar scenario materializes in “I’m Barbara Eden” by Michael Whistler. The piece finds Chris Okishi joyously imparting the story of his little boy self and his best friend, carefree, only to have his early expression of self squashed by a disapproving adult. Okishi, who also appears—with dialect—in Richard Ballon’s “How We Began,” is like watching a smile take the stage. He clearly loves to perform and his energy is welcoming and infectious.
Though more subdued and distressed in her first act piece, Jessica Wilson does a 180-degree turn for “Banana Split, by Ellen Grafton. Taking the audience on a very visceral encounter of freshman back seat teenage lust—stifled by a flashback to a very odd exercise in a sex education course—Wilson is fun and the story her character recalls is cringe-worthy.
Another comic highlight that doesn’t fit into any of the categories above but is, nonetheless, rife with “OMG” moments, is Janet Schlapkohl’s “Childbirth Methods,” a hilarious trip through the evolution of childbirth over several decades. Riverside’s artistic director, Jody Hovland, plays a maternity nurse who maintains a healthy skepticism as she watches methods of giving birth change through the years. Fads, shifting roles, contradictions and absurdities abound. Schlapkohl’s piece has the most cohesive writing and concise progression of story in the evening. This piece also seemed the most rehearsed and “in the bones” of the perfomer, as Hovland navigated its turns and surprises with skilled comic timing.
As a “bonus” and fitting finale, Walking the Wire audiences are treated to a side-splitting preview of Megan Gogerty’s one-woman show, Megan Gogerty Wants You to Know, opening September 2011 at Riverside. To those unfamiliar with her work, Gogerty’s comedic writing is brilliant and her energy on stage is larger than life. And she is an explosion of hilarity. She is a seasoned one-woman-show-girl who, in Walking the Wire, recounts a trip shuttling her baby to NYC on a plane.
Thinking on her piece days later, I recalled the imagery her story created in my mind—the planes, the disapproving faces of passengers, the tiny bathroom where she struggled to change a diaper. That’s when I know a monologist is really good—when the character’s memories become my memory of the piece, not the actor or actress performer. (Though her shiny red shoes were to die for. I’ll remember those for a while.)
Walking the Wire is directed by Ron Clark, Riverside’s resident artist and production manager. The evening flew by, aided by effectively-timed lighting shifts within and between monologues, designed by Drew Bielinski. The sound and transition music, designed by Sarah Smith, also helped the evening maintain meaningful momentum.
This year’s writers hail from Iowa, Philadelphia, Chicago, Maryville, MO, Amherst, MA, and Madison, WI.
Walking the Wire runs March 11-13 on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday at 7:30 p.m. and Sunday at 2 p.m. For more information go to www.riversidetheatre.org.
Want to contribute reviews or articles?
Contact us at ictheatreblog@gmail.com.
Showing posts with label Toomsen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Toomsen. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Mary’s Wedding is a Touching Breath of Fresh Air
by Angie Toomsen
Riverside - Anything is possible in a dream, and anything is possible in theatre. In the beginning of Stephen Massciotte’s Mary Wedding, it is announced "tonight is just a dream . . . it begins at the end and ends at the beginning."
What follows is a fluid, free-associative journey from the night star-crossed loves meet in a barn during a thunderstorm in pre-WWI 1920’s Canada, to the eve of Mary’s wedding years later.
Mary (Kalen Harriman)—a wide-eyed, poetry-loving British transplant—meets Charlie (Martin Andrews), a farmer’s son. Mary is drawn to the skilled horseman, as is he to her. The literary imagery sets the stage for nascent true love as both seek shelter from a booming thunderstorm. In their first meeting, we learn that Charlie fears thunderstorms and Mary is deathly afraid of horses. We also learn that their respective strengths bolster each other’s vulnerabilities as Charlie coaxes Mary to ride, and as Mary pacifies Charlie’s thunderclap anxiety, leading him in recitation of Tennyson’s poem, “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”
As their fondness for one another develops through subsequent encounters, the dream skips around in time and space. Charlie has joined the Canadian Calvary and is ship-bound to Europe, where he is soon entrenched in real battle—a far cry from the poetic “Charge of the Light Brigade.” The violence Charlie faces in battle—and assuaging thoughts of Mary—are volleyed with scenes of an evolving pre-war courtship under the thumb of a class-conscious mother who does not immediately approve of the pairing.
The lines between these disparate places and times blur and overlap as Mary—who spends the entire play in a delicate white night dress—steps in and out of the role of Charlie’s superior officer, Sergeant Flowers, a friend and a comfort to Charlie.
Intersecting points on the timeline accelerate and, as they reach a final crescendo, the audience is reminded that this is, in fact, a dream. Mary’s dream. Not merely a dream in the sense that the a linear depiction of time can be disregarded, but that wishes can be fulfilled and moments re-imagined. The dream wakes Mary unto itself—like a waiting room to the reality of her waking life and pending nuptials—as a heartbreaking reality must be named.
Riverside Theatre’s current production, directed by Sean Christopher Lewis, is effectively executed in every respect.
The production is a tear-jerker, evidenced by the wet eyes, tissues and reassuring looks exchanged among theatre companions as the house lights came up at the end of this 90-minute piece in its opening weekend. Massciotte’s script blueprints the emotional journey, but it is the actors and Lewis’ economical direction that earn credit for the success of this production.
Martin Andrews is a gifted, sensitive professional who reveals a very genuine and believable picture of a young man touched by love and by the horrors of war. In a role that could seem overly sentimental or difficult for modern audiences to relate to if thinly interpreted, Andrews’ own commitment and generosity allow Charlie’s experiences to transcend the distance of era. Iowa City theatre goers are fortunate to have actors like Andrews in the area.
As Mary, Chicago actress Kalen Harriman is a walking angel. Simply delightful. Like a little girl as times, she captures Mary’s wonder and innocence in a way that makes it impossible for the audience not to fall in love with her. Her performance—skillful, specific, and marked with very clear navigation through abrupt transitions—is positively effortless. Harriman also effectively handles a British dialect in a way that is rare for American actors.
The play is staged on a beautiful set designed by Shawn Johnson. Lengthy gapped wood slats seem to reach on for days, creating the illusion of greater depth than the space affords on its own. There is just enough there for Lewis and the actors to play with—two gates, a long sturdy shelf/bench to create levels—and stacks of hay that become barricades in battle.
Courtney Schmitz Watson’s lighting design plays with the gaps in the boards in a way that makes the set seem other-worldly at times. The lighting, and Lewis’ sounds design, help transport the space from barn to battlefield with ease. Perfect ethereal touches, fitting for a dreamscape.
Mary’s Wedding plays through April 18th.
Angie Toomsen has an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa and a BA in theatre from UNI. She spent nearly a decade in New York City, seeing, participating in and studying theatre. She still enjoys writing, acting and directing as time permits.
Riverside - Anything is possible in a dream, and anything is possible in theatre. In the beginning of Stephen Massciotte’s Mary Wedding, it is announced "tonight is just a dream . . . it begins at the end and ends at the beginning."
What follows is a fluid, free-associative journey from the night star-crossed loves meet in a barn during a thunderstorm in pre-WWI 1920’s Canada, to the eve of Mary’s wedding years later.
Mary (Kalen Harriman)—a wide-eyed, poetry-loving British transplant—meets Charlie (Martin Andrews), a farmer’s son. Mary is drawn to the skilled horseman, as is he to her. The literary imagery sets the stage for nascent true love as both seek shelter from a booming thunderstorm. In their first meeting, we learn that Charlie fears thunderstorms and Mary is deathly afraid of horses. We also learn that their respective strengths bolster each other’s vulnerabilities as Charlie coaxes Mary to ride, and as Mary pacifies Charlie’s thunderclap anxiety, leading him in recitation of Tennyson’s poem, “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”
As their fondness for one another develops through subsequent encounters, the dream skips around in time and space. Charlie has joined the Canadian Calvary and is ship-bound to Europe, where he is soon entrenched in real battle—a far cry from the poetic “Charge of the Light Brigade.” The violence Charlie faces in battle—and assuaging thoughts of Mary—are volleyed with scenes of an evolving pre-war courtship under the thumb of a class-conscious mother who does not immediately approve of the pairing.
The lines between these disparate places and times blur and overlap as Mary—who spends the entire play in a delicate white night dress—steps in and out of the role of Charlie’s superior officer, Sergeant Flowers, a friend and a comfort to Charlie.
Intersecting points on the timeline accelerate and, as they reach a final crescendo, the audience is reminded that this is, in fact, a dream. Mary’s dream. Not merely a dream in the sense that the a linear depiction of time can be disregarded, but that wishes can be fulfilled and moments re-imagined. The dream wakes Mary unto itself—like a waiting room to the reality of her waking life and pending nuptials—as a heartbreaking reality must be named.
Riverside Theatre’s current production, directed by Sean Christopher Lewis, is effectively executed in every respect.
The production is a tear-jerker, evidenced by the wet eyes, tissues and reassuring looks exchanged among theatre companions as the house lights came up at the end of this 90-minute piece in its opening weekend. Massciotte’s script blueprints the emotional journey, but it is the actors and Lewis’ economical direction that earn credit for the success of this production.
Martin Andrews is a gifted, sensitive professional who reveals a very genuine and believable picture of a young man touched by love and by the horrors of war. In a role that could seem overly sentimental or difficult for modern audiences to relate to if thinly interpreted, Andrews’ own commitment and generosity allow Charlie’s experiences to transcend the distance of era. Iowa City theatre goers are fortunate to have actors like Andrews in the area.
As Mary, Chicago actress Kalen Harriman is a walking angel. Simply delightful. Like a little girl as times, she captures Mary’s wonder and innocence in a way that makes it impossible for the audience not to fall in love with her. Her performance—skillful, specific, and marked with very clear navigation through abrupt transitions—is positively effortless. Harriman also effectively handles a British dialect in a way that is rare for American actors.
The play is staged on a beautiful set designed by Shawn Johnson. Lengthy gapped wood slats seem to reach on for days, creating the illusion of greater depth than the space affords on its own. There is just enough there for Lewis and the actors to play with—two gates, a long sturdy shelf/bench to create levels—and stacks of hay that become barricades in battle.
Courtney Schmitz Watson’s lighting design plays with the gaps in the boards in a way that makes the set seem other-worldly at times. The lighting, and Lewis’ sounds design, help transport the space from barn to battlefield with ease. Perfect ethereal touches, fitting for a dreamscape.
Mary’s Wedding plays through April 18th.
Angie Toomsen has an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa and a BA in theatre from UNI. She spent nearly a decade in New York City, seeing, participating in and studying theatre. She still enjoys writing, acting and directing as time permits.
Monday, March 8, 2010
A review of Killadelphia
by Angie Toomsen
Riverside - This past weekend, Riverside Theatre opened Killadelphia: Mixtape of a City, a one-man, 75-minute collage of observations and interviews about incarceration, violence, crime, loss and criminal reform.
Over the past decade, crime has skyrocketed in the city of Philadelphia. In the early 2000’s murders averaged over 400 a day, earning the city the reputation “a body a day” and the portentous moniker, “Killadelphia.”
In response to the growing wave of violence, the Mural Arts Program — an organization working to inject art into dark places — commissioned a short theatre piece about the program and the prisoners serving life sentences who create murals to help beautify the city. The intended outcome was a 20-minute piece to be performed for the population at the Pennsylvania State Correctional Institution in Graterford, Pennsylvania.
Enter Sean Christopher Lewis, playwright-in-residence with the InterAct Theatre Company. Lewis accepted the challenge and began interviewing inmates about the mural project, their imprisonment, their crimes, and how they survive the daily routine when there is no chance of freedom. After meeting and interviewing some of the “lifers” at Gratersford, Lewis found he had more questions than answers, so he widened his gaze. He began to explore the parts of the city that affect — and are most profoundly affected by — Philly’s new age of violence.
The result is a 75-minute documentary-style one-man piece—narrated in first person—that gives voice to nearly 20 individuals. His interviewees include inmates serving life sentences, corrections officers, victims’ advocates and families. His characterizations also extend to the mayor, the media, and his own family members as they responded to his involvement in the project.
At first glance, Lewis is so accessible, friendly and warm that he looks like he would be a shoe-in to host a children’s television show, which makes it all-the-more impressive when he drops into the course vernacular and rough exteriors of the inmates he meets. As a performer, Lewis does an outstanding job of removing himself from the interviews. He allows his subjects to speak through him, buoyed by his own enthusiasm.
As a writer/documentarian, Lewis also allows the subjects’ perspectives to lead him. With only gentle processing, he extracts meaning from the encounters with a light touch, never imposing. I left with a collection voices and individual stories circulating in my head, some sad, some enervating, many quite funny. Some of the most profound statements made were straight from the subjects’ mouths (through Lewis).
An inmate asks Sean how “deep” his theatre piece is going to go. Confused by the question at first, Lewis listens further as the lifer explains his philosophy of two worlds that exist outside of the facility: the one Sean Christopher Lewis lives in and the one the criminals—and potential criminals—inhabit. They exist on parallel planes that often come close enough to “collide.”
Many of the inmates Lewis spoke with had received their life sentences while they were still in their teens. A judge had already decided they were too dangerous to walk as free individuals ever again.
As one prisoner says about surviving his daily routine, “it’s all about choices.”
Throughout the piece, Lewis seems to intuit that the questions and statements he encounters are situated at the pulse of a larger set of questions. He allows questions to build themselves, never directly posing them to the audience. Except for one.
Though it’s easy to call it “evil,” it’s, more specifically, lack of self-responsibility — from a tragic momentary lapse to the kind that permanently cripples an individual’s ability to make good choices — that is the root cause of the crimes that slapped his subjects with life-sentences. So, that means that taking responsibility for one’s actions is the ultimate solution, right?
Sure, except there’s a catch 22 within the criminal justice system, as many lifers see it. If they completely own up to their crimes and meet them with complete honesty — which is the only way true rehabilitation can happen — they could lose the chance for a future pardon or shortened sentence. When it comes to murder, unequivocal confessions might heal the soul, but they more thoroughly seal a lifer’s fate. Lewis asks the audience: “what would you do?”
Here, quite possibly, is a glimmer of that intersection the inmate asks Lewis about. Can you see why someone would hold fast to their innocence, if it meant the possibility that they would feel the grass again?
Lest it seem that Lewis has forgotten that the inmates murdered people — ruined lives — he does extend his interviews to the families of victims and victim advocacy groups. He voices their losses with care. One young man lived very near Lewis in Philly and had come to the city for similar reasons. Even shared the same daily route to and from work. The victim’s family member tells Lewis, “being without him is like missing the ability to laugh.” And there are others.
Killadelphia doesn’t pardon murderers. It doesn’t side with them. But it does present them as people who have committed murders. This isn’t an act of compassion, in the conventional sense. It’s reality. If you set about trying to understand how human beings commit acts that devastate lives and ruin their own, you have to try to understand why they think the way they do. The places where choices went awry. That can mean finding the places where your thinking — your potential choices in certain circumstances — could “collide” with theirs. The parts of them that aren’t criminal.
To be clear, though, Lewis states he deliberately did not attempt to answer any questions. In fact, at first, when the show’s final blackout came, I thought “it’s not done” and, frankly, felt a little frustrated. A little uncomfortable. I told my theatre companion that I was confused because the piece comprised very focused, specific moments, infused with vitality. Still, comprehensively, it didn’t have a clear message. What was the real purpose here?
After thinking about it over the weekend — because it wouldn’t leave me, quite honestly — my initial reaction re-framed itself.
The piece doesn’t feel finished because it’s just beginning a dialogue. It’s not the piece that left me unsettled, it’s the subject. Lewis is navigating a complex, frustrating topic. When it comes to violence, inner-city crime and prison reform, the issue is so convoluted and so mired in bureaucracy and politics that the questions aren’t even clear.
Is redemption possible in the current system? What purpose do the murals serve? Can art fix anything? Should people be given the possibility of forgiveness in this lifetime? And so on, and so on. Any one of these questions could have been a guiding focus but a definitive question would have narrowed the process and prevented Lewis from collecting and telling the stories — the stories that found him as much as he found them.
Killadelphia: Mixtape of a City plays through March 14 at Riverside Theater. Performances begin at 7:30 p.m. and are followed by a talk back with Lewis after every performance.
Riverside - This past weekend, Riverside Theatre opened Killadelphia: Mixtape of a City, a one-man, 75-minute collage of observations and interviews about incarceration, violence, crime, loss and criminal reform.
Over the past decade, crime has skyrocketed in the city of Philadelphia. In the early 2000’s murders averaged over 400 a day, earning the city the reputation “a body a day” and the portentous moniker, “Killadelphia.”
In response to the growing wave of violence, the Mural Arts Program — an organization working to inject art into dark places — commissioned a short theatre piece about the program and the prisoners serving life sentences who create murals to help beautify the city. The intended outcome was a 20-minute piece to be performed for the population at the Pennsylvania State Correctional Institution in Graterford, Pennsylvania.
Enter Sean Christopher Lewis, playwright-in-residence with the InterAct Theatre Company. Lewis accepted the challenge and began interviewing inmates about the mural project, their imprisonment, their crimes, and how they survive the daily routine when there is no chance of freedom. After meeting and interviewing some of the “lifers” at Gratersford, Lewis found he had more questions than answers, so he widened his gaze. He began to explore the parts of the city that affect — and are most profoundly affected by — Philly’s new age of violence.
The result is a 75-minute documentary-style one-man piece—narrated in first person—that gives voice to nearly 20 individuals. His interviewees include inmates serving life sentences, corrections officers, victims’ advocates and families. His characterizations also extend to the mayor, the media, and his own family members as they responded to his involvement in the project.
At first glance, Lewis is so accessible, friendly and warm that he looks like he would be a shoe-in to host a children’s television show, which makes it all-the-more impressive when he drops into the course vernacular and rough exteriors of the inmates he meets. As a performer, Lewis does an outstanding job of removing himself from the interviews. He allows his subjects to speak through him, buoyed by his own enthusiasm.
As a writer/documentarian, Lewis also allows the subjects’ perspectives to lead him. With only gentle processing, he extracts meaning from the encounters with a light touch, never imposing. I left with a collection voices and individual stories circulating in my head, some sad, some enervating, many quite funny. Some of the most profound statements made were straight from the subjects’ mouths (through Lewis).
An inmate asks Sean how “deep” his theatre piece is going to go. Confused by the question at first, Lewis listens further as the lifer explains his philosophy of two worlds that exist outside of the facility: the one Sean Christopher Lewis lives in and the one the criminals—and potential criminals—inhabit. They exist on parallel planes that often come close enough to “collide.”
Many of the inmates Lewis spoke with had received their life sentences while they were still in their teens. A judge had already decided they were too dangerous to walk as free individuals ever again.
As one prisoner says about surviving his daily routine, “it’s all about choices.”
Throughout the piece, Lewis seems to intuit that the questions and statements he encounters are situated at the pulse of a larger set of questions. He allows questions to build themselves, never directly posing them to the audience. Except for one.
Though it’s easy to call it “evil,” it’s, more specifically, lack of self-responsibility — from a tragic momentary lapse to the kind that permanently cripples an individual’s ability to make good choices — that is the root cause of the crimes that slapped his subjects with life-sentences. So, that means that taking responsibility for one’s actions is the ultimate solution, right?
Sure, except there’s a catch 22 within the criminal justice system, as many lifers see it. If they completely own up to their crimes and meet them with complete honesty — which is the only way true rehabilitation can happen — they could lose the chance for a future pardon or shortened sentence. When it comes to murder, unequivocal confessions might heal the soul, but they more thoroughly seal a lifer’s fate. Lewis asks the audience: “what would you do?”
Here, quite possibly, is a glimmer of that intersection the inmate asks Lewis about. Can you see why someone would hold fast to their innocence, if it meant the possibility that they would feel the grass again?
Lest it seem that Lewis has forgotten that the inmates murdered people — ruined lives — he does extend his interviews to the families of victims and victim advocacy groups. He voices their losses with care. One young man lived very near Lewis in Philly and had come to the city for similar reasons. Even shared the same daily route to and from work. The victim’s family member tells Lewis, “being without him is like missing the ability to laugh.” And there are others.
Killadelphia doesn’t pardon murderers. It doesn’t side with them. But it does present them as people who have committed murders. This isn’t an act of compassion, in the conventional sense. It’s reality. If you set about trying to understand how human beings commit acts that devastate lives and ruin their own, you have to try to understand why they think the way they do. The places where choices went awry. That can mean finding the places where your thinking — your potential choices in certain circumstances — could “collide” with theirs. The parts of them that aren’t criminal.
To be clear, though, Lewis states he deliberately did not attempt to answer any questions. In fact, at first, when the show’s final blackout came, I thought “it’s not done” and, frankly, felt a little frustrated. A little uncomfortable. I told my theatre companion that I was confused because the piece comprised very focused, specific moments, infused with vitality. Still, comprehensively, it didn’t have a clear message. What was the real purpose here?
After thinking about it over the weekend — because it wouldn’t leave me, quite honestly — my initial reaction re-framed itself.
The piece doesn’t feel finished because it’s just beginning a dialogue. It’s not the piece that left me unsettled, it’s the subject. Lewis is navigating a complex, frustrating topic. When it comes to violence, inner-city crime and prison reform, the issue is so convoluted and so mired in bureaucracy and politics that the questions aren’t even clear.
Is redemption possible in the current system? What purpose do the murals serve? Can art fix anything? Should people be given the possibility of forgiveness in this lifetime? And so on, and so on. Any one of these questions could have been a guiding focus but a definitive question would have narrowed the process and prevented Lewis from collecting and telling the stories — the stories that found him as much as he found them.
Killadelphia: Mixtape of a City plays through March 14 at Riverside Theater. Performances begin at 7:30 p.m. and are followed by a talk back with Lewis after every performance.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Walking the Wire impresses
by Angie Toomsen
Riverside - This past weekend I attended Riverside Theatre’s 11th Annual Walking the Wire monologue show. If there was another performance to follow this review, my unequivocal recommendation would be: “don’t miss this.” As it were, “don’t miss this NEXT year” will have to suffice.
To those unfamiliar with Walking the Wire, Iowa City’s Riverside Theatre puts out a call for ten-minute monologues. The plays orbit—or downright land upon—a unique theme each year. Twelve plays are selected, actors are cast and a show is made.
This year’s theme was “Holiday Tales.” From the 4th of July to Christmas to Veterans Day, the holidays provided a backdrop for touching, hilarious and often absurd circumstances. The theme seemed fitting, both because we are about to embark upon the holiday season and because holidays offer so many moments of recognition and shared experience.
Staged by Ron Clark, the pieces were well-selected (I have heard they have gotten over a hundred submissions in the past) and ordered in a sequence that energetically “passed the baton” from one to the next. The performers were dynamic, and I can’t think of a single moment when the actor standing on the stage didn’t have the audience’s full engagement. In fact, the crowd was very vocal and I overheard a few people around me whisper things like “this is outstanding” and “isn’t this wonderful?”
The evening opened with “A Declaration of Independence on Surf Avenue” by Carrie Lee O’Dell, which is the story of a young woman from a “sports family” who finally finds her sport…as a competitive eater. The details of her foray into the discipline — as well as the stomach-turning particulars of an actual event (and the days after the event) — are delivered by Jessica Wilson, whose spunky, genuine performance held Saturday’s audience in the palm of her hand.
Though the evening was not a competition, I felt that O’Dell’s piece was one of the contenders to wind up in a ten-minute play anthology and become an audition favorite, but I do have one structural observation. The narrator, when trying to support why it is she understands what a waste of food competitive eating can be, tells the story of a group of under served urban kids who helped put it in perspective for her.
The sub-narrative touched such a nerve and was approached with such depth by the actress that it was almost jarring to come back to the primary through-line, about a young woman declaring independence from the expectations and ambivalence of her family. That said, I would love to see a whole piece about the experience with the children as it was very emotionally charged and touching.
Steven Hunt’s “Thanksgiving Dinner with the Last Whore in Calhoun County,” performed by veteran “Riversider” Tim Budd, was another stand out. A drifter attempts to fund an evening with a prostitute — who has requested a Thanksgiving dinner and cake as payment — and inadvertently winds up helping to repair a rift between a mother and daughter. All parties, himself included, learn a little something about gratitude. Budd brings the story to life with such sensitivity and detail that I could easily paint a mental picture of the people and places he encountered.
“Uncle Leo’s Revenge” by Ron Clark is another contender for a play anthology. This is a side-splitting tale, told by one of three small-town-southern triplets, whose uncle Leo exacts vengeance on a group of problem boys. Leo forces the troublemakers to dance naked in the back of his flat bed truck as he drives through town while the girls throw firecrackers at the boys’ feet. Though ambivalent about the cancellation of his town’s July 4th festivities, Leo manages to unintentionally save the holiday by offering up a “parade float” the town would certainly talk about for ages. Kristy Hartsgrove handled the comedic storytelling like the pro she is, making this piece a definite crowd favorite.
Brian Tanner’s “Black Friday,” performed by William Czerwionka, is about a retail worker who, counter to his proclamation that he will not work a double shift on the biggest shopping day of the year, caves at the promise of a date with a work crush. “Black Friday” nails it when it comes to irrational shoppers, blistered feet and cold break room pizza. Czerwionka’s droll “every guy” delivery perfectly complements Tanner’s clever zingers. Everyone can relate to “Black Friday” on some level, but an insider’s take on it, wrapped up in a sweet (but not sickeningly so) love story, was entertaining and structurally satisfying.
Megan Gogerty’s “New Year,” performed by the lovely Saffron Henke, is filled with comic gems about a family Christmas with a budding intellectually elitist college kid who has decided that the calendar should start with his birthday. Among other hilariousness, parental fears of the boy’s potential outspokenness at a holiday party are assuaged by “medicinal brownies.” Like everything I have ever read of Gogerty, the piece is skillfully witty and a crowd-pleaser.
“Holiday Transformation,” written and performed by Janet Schlapkohl, brought the house down and served as fitting finale. “Holiday Transformation” is about a perm-gone-wrong and a dress-gone-wrong at a holiday party for veterinarians. If Schlapkohl were to write and perform in a full-length one-woman show, I would be there opening night. She is a riot, and even offered up the evening’s visual piece-de-resistance in the form of a dress that was meant to be stenciled with holly, but wound up looking undeniably phallic.
I could say something great about every single piece in the show and every single performer. In all, this was an impressive night celebrating the talents of multiple writers, actors and the area’s own professional producing organization, Riverside Theatre. Again, if you can make it next year, don’t miss it.
Angie Toomsen has an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa and a BA in theatre from UNI. She spent nearly a decade in New York City, seeing, participating in and studying theatre. She still enjoys writing, acting and directing as time permits.
Riverside - This past weekend I attended Riverside Theatre’s 11th Annual Walking the Wire monologue show. If there was another performance to follow this review, my unequivocal recommendation would be: “don’t miss this.” As it were, “don’t miss this NEXT year” will have to suffice.
To those unfamiliar with Walking the Wire, Iowa City’s Riverside Theatre puts out a call for ten-minute monologues. The plays orbit—or downright land upon—a unique theme each year. Twelve plays are selected, actors are cast and a show is made.
This year’s theme was “Holiday Tales.” From the 4th of July to Christmas to Veterans Day, the holidays provided a backdrop for touching, hilarious and often absurd circumstances. The theme seemed fitting, both because we are about to embark upon the holiday season and because holidays offer so many moments of recognition and shared experience.
Staged by Ron Clark, the pieces were well-selected (I have heard they have gotten over a hundred submissions in the past) and ordered in a sequence that energetically “passed the baton” from one to the next. The performers were dynamic, and I can’t think of a single moment when the actor standing on the stage didn’t have the audience’s full engagement. In fact, the crowd was very vocal and I overheard a few people around me whisper things like “this is outstanding” and “isn’t this wonderful?”
The evening opened with “A Declaration of Independence on Surf Avenue” by Carrie Lee O’Dell, which is the story of a young woman from a “sports family” who finally finds her sport…as a competitive eater. The details of her foray into the discipline — as well as the stomach-turning particulars of an actual event (and the days after the event) — are delivered by Jessica Wilson, whose spunky, genuine performance held Saturday’s audience in the palm of her hand.
Though the evening was not a competition, I felt that O’Dell’s piece was one of the contenders to wind up in a ten-minute play anthology and become an audition favorite, but I do have one structural observation. The narrator, when trying to support why it is she understands what a waste of food competitive eating can be, tells the story of a group of under served urban kids who helped put it in perspective for her.
The sub-narrative touched such a nerve and was approached with such depth by the actress that it was almost jarring to come back to the primary through-line, about a young woman declaring independence from the expectations and ambivalence of her family. That said, I would love to see a whole piece about the experience with the children as it was very emotionally charged and touching.
Steven Hunt’s “Thanksgiving Dinner with the Last Whore in Calhoun County,” performed by veteran “Riversider” Tim Budd, was another stand out. A drifter attempts to fund an evening with a prostitute — who has requested a Thanksgiving dinner and cake as payment — and inadvertently winds up helping to repair a rift between a mother and daughter. All parties, himself included, learn a little something about gratitude. Budd brings the story to life with such sensitivity and detail that I could easily paint a mental picture of the people and places he encountered.
“Uncle Leo’s Revenge” by Ron Clark is another contender for a play anthology. This is a side-splitting tale, told by one of three small-town-southern triplets, whose uncle Leo exacts vengeance on a group of problem boys. Leo forces the troublemakers to dance naked in the back of his flat bed truck as he drives through town while the girls throw firecrackers at the boys’ feet. Though ambivalent about the cancellation of his town’s July 4th festivities, Leo manages to unintentionally save the holiday by offering up a “parade float” the town would certainly talk about for ages. Kristy Hartsgrove handled the comedic storytelling like the pro she is, making this piece a definite crowd favorite.
Brian Tanner’s “Black Friday,” performed by William Czerwionka, is about a retail worker who, counter to his proclamation that he will not work a double shift on the biggest shopping day of the year, caves at the promise of a date with a work crush. “Black Friday” nails it when it comes to irrational shoppers, blistered feet and cold break room pizza. Czerwionka’s droll “every guy” delivery perfectly complements Tanner’s clever zingers. Everyone can relate to “Black Friday” on some level, but an insider’s take on it, wrapped up in a sweet (but not sickeningly so) love story, was entertaining and structurally satisfying.
Megan Gogerty’s “New Year,” performed by the lovely Saffron Henke, is filled with comic gems about a family Christmas with a budding intellectually elitist college kid who has decided that the calendar should start with his birthday. Among other hilariousness, parental fears of the boy’s potential outspokenness at a holiday party are assuaged by “medicinal brownies.” Like everything I have ever read of Gogerty, the piece is skillfully witty and a crowd-pleaser.
“Holiday Transformation,” written and performed by Janet Schlapkohl, brought the house down and served as fitting finale. “Holiday Transformation” is about a perm-gone-wrong and a dress-gone-wrong at a holiday party for veterinarians. If Schlapkohl were to write and perform in a full-length one-woman show, I would be there opening night. She is a riot, and even offered up the evening’s visual piece-de-resistance in the form of a dress that was meant to be stenciled with holly, but wound up looking undeniably phallic.
I could say something great about every single piece in the show and every single performer. In all, this was an impressive night celebrating the talents of multiple writers, actors and the area’s own professional producing organization, Riverside Theatre. Again, if you can make it next year, don’t miss it.
Angie Toomsen has an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa and a BA in theatre from UNI. She spent nearly a decade in New York City, seeing, participating in and studying theatre. She still enjoys writing, acting and directing as time permits.
Monday, June 22, 2009
A review of Richard III
by Angie Toomsen
Riverside - It was the afternoon of an outdoor venue’s discontent (thunderstorm warnings and torrential downpour) made glorious summer theatre with clear, starry skies and rain-cooled evening air.
Riverside Theater’s 10th Annual Shakespeare Festival launched its second summer
offering — Richard III — on Friday, June 19th. Severe weather earlier in the day likely contributed to a slightly smaller crowd than expected, but audience size did not affect the accomplished work of a cast of actors with performances ranging from “quite capable” to “outstanding.”
The play’s events occur during the War of the Roses—England’s civil war between the York and Lancaster dynasties—just after the defeat of Henry VI, the last Lancaster. Edward IV (“this son of York”) has assumed the throne, but ill health numbers his days. Next in queue to the throne is his brother, Clarence, but his other brother—Richard, the Duke of Gloucester—plans his own ascension to the seat. Anyone who stands between Richard and the throne—including his own brother—will be summarily, cunningly and heartlessly removed from the path.
Richard—portrayed by New York City actor, Dennis Fox—dispels with any mysteries about what he plans to do, and why, in the famous “winter of our discontent” extended confessional/statement of purpose. Crippled with a useless arm and a leg requiring a rigid brace, Richard believes he is too deformed to find love and, therefore, resolves himself to the ruthless pursuit of power to fill the void.
Lest the audience feel pity for Richard, however, Fox’s straightforward, engaged but unimpassioned manner in his opening speech belies vulnerability. He speaks coolly of his disfigurement and its effect on his soul and hides his woundedness behind tactic, just as he conceals his twisted arm hidden behind his back at almost all times.
And when kneeling is required—an oft-administered maneuver of persuasion—he removes a pin from his leg brace, allowing his knee to bend. The action is unapologetic and yet, on some level, Richard seems aware that the extra effort does inspire a modicum of sympathy.
Counter to what is said of Richard or what he seems to think of himself, Fox is not made to seem ugly, sickly, old or in ill health, aside from obvious physical limitations. He is healthy, strong and, for what it’s worth, handsome. He woos the recently-widowed Anne with flattery and skewed emotional logic, even with her husband’s bloodied corpse in sight, and Anne succumbs to Richard.
After a successful seduction, albeit one that redefines bad timing and poor taste, Fox launches into the speech "Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?/ Was ever woman in this humour won?" Rife with wit and conversationally engaging, Fox’s Richard has won the audience and become the rather likable anti-hero.
Conspiring next to Buckingham and the others in his camp of supporters, Richard joyously pursues his aims, leading to several very humorous situations that maintain the audience’s support for the first half of the play.
With the exception of three minor and well-handled opening night line stumbles, Fox’s entire performance is completely in command of itself, not a moment of the text’s logic missed, overrun or taken for granted. As Richard nears his goal and fears for security of its attainment, Fox steps into the anxiety and frustration, as well as sheer terror and remorse at the bombastic momentary return of an exiled conscience during a dream sequence.
In a play of this length (Shakespeare’s second-longest after Hamlet) it is very important that Richard is really good or little else matters. Riverside’s production succeeds in its casting of Dennis Fox. But Fox is not the only one doing great work. The entire cast—even the acting interns—are very competent with a number of standouts.
Tim Budd, as Lord Buckingham, has magnetic stage presence and, as collaborator and fellow conspirer, creates an exciting, charged chemistry with Richard. Later, when Buckingham is betrayed by Richard, Budd makes Buckingham’s remorse for having supported Richard palatable and believable.
Ron Clark, as the dying King Edward IV, provides some of the play’s much-needed penitence and believable sorrow necessary to depict the true destruction Richard has produced. Edward’s attempts to bring peace to his warring house and his lamentations over the death of his brother Clarence inspire compassion and sympathy. Clark also plays the mayor, duped by Richard and Buckingham in one of the play’s comical moments, and leads the audience to complicity in crying out “Long live our sovereign, Richard King of England.”
Other solid performances include Jody Hovland, as Richard’s mother, the Duchess of York, Steve Cardamone as Clarence, Patrick DuLaney as Hastings, Michael Perez as Catesby, Jordan Laroya as both a murderer and as the assassin Tyrell, and several others.
Saren Nofs-Snyder, who plays Queen Margaret, possesses a professional-grade, seasoned instrument and is regal and intimidating. Though borderline melodramatic at times, she assumes a mystical quality as prophetess of Richard’s destruction and is effectively added to several scenes where Margaret’s predictions return to haunt those who failed to heed them.
The other primary female roles, Anne and Elizabeth, are played by two quite capable actresses. In their collective performances, however, lies one shared problem. It is one of the few criticisms I have with the show, but it’s an important one. Each actress, in her own way, glosses over the devastating loss and maddening pain that her character has endured.
As Anne, Mallory Portnoy has a fairly clear understanding of what Anne is supposed to be going through, but her performance is more of a “shape of experience” than a real, rooted, nuanced experience of loss and grief. Moments of “put-upon” emotion and a forced vocal shakiness give the performance an air of falsehood. Granted, Anne has one of the most difficult scenes of all Shakespearean female roles. Transitioning from very fresh, very deep loss and shock to reluctant seduction by the man who caused her such pain is a little hard to make emotional sense of. Portnoy is a fine actress—and does succeed in telling the story—but she could take the performance to a new level by deepening her experience as an actress.
As Elizabeth, Dawn Michelle Mancarella is quite sturdy and commanding, but, when she discovers her babes are murdered, the actress barely approaches the depth of shock and loss a mother would feel. In fact, when Richard turns up right away to woo Elizabeth to relinquish her daughter in marriage, Mancarella is quick to jump into a tennis match of dialogue with Richard, completely stepping over the profound emotional realization of what’s just been taken from her forever.
Again, these are good actresses playing emotionally difficult roles. The challenges are no small feats. If their portrayals afforded more vulnerability and risk, it would be of tremendous service to the play as a whole.
Seemingly set in the World War I era, the play opens with energetic, period music and the presentation of the cast in costumes and mild mannerisms of the day. The signifiers of the time period are subtle and work well, including a telephone and other modern set pieces, frequent cigarette smoking, modern weaponry, and sound cues of aircraft, bombs and machine gun fire.
The set’s simplicity serves the play well. In fact, there isn’t much “set” to speak of. The beautiful flood-survivor-of-a-venue provides a foundation of stairs, balconies, levels, and uses the seating aisles to create depth of staging. The music, judiciously used, is dreamy with an undercurrent pulse that helps drive transitions and weightier moments. The lighting effectively directs mood, tone and focus and, coupled with accompanying visual effects, gives a mystical quality to a surprisingly frightening dream sequence.
Richard III runs through July 12, along with A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It is an impressive night of professional theatre in a beautiful and unique setting.
Angie Toomsen has an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa and a BA in theatre from UNI. She spent nearly a decade in New York City, seeing, participating in and studying theatre. She still enjoys writing, acting and directing as time permits.
Riverside - It was the afternoon of an outdoor venue’s discontent (thunderstorm warnings and torrential downpour) made glorious summer theatre with clear, starry skies and rain-cooled evening air.
Riverside Theater’s 10th Annual Shakespeare Festival launched its second summer
offering — Richard III — on Friday, June 19th. Severe weather earlier in the day likely contributed to a slightly smaller crowd than expected, but audience size did not affect the accomplished work of a cast of actors with performances ranging from “quite capable” to “outstanding.”The play’s events occur during the War of the Roses—England’s civil war between the York and Lancaster dynasties—just after the defeat of Henry VI, the last Lancaster. Edward IV (“this son of York”) has assumed the throne, but ill health numbers his days. Next in queue to the throne is his brother, Clarence, but his other brother—Richard, the Duke of Gloucester—plans his own ascension to the seat. Anyone who stands between Richard and the throne—including his own brother—will be summarily, cunningly and heartlessly removed from the path.
Richard—portrayed by New York City actor, Dennis Fox—dispels with any mysteries about what he plans to do, and why, in the famous “winter of our discontent” extended confessional/statement of purpose. Crippled with a useless arm and a leg requiring a rigid brace, Richard believes he is too deformed to find love and, therefore, resolves himself to the ruthless pursuit of power to fill the void.
Lest the audience feel pity for Richard, however, Fox’s straightforward, engaged but unimpassioned manner in his opening speech belies vulnerability. He speaks coolly of his disfigurement and its effect on his soul and hides his woundedness behind tactic, just as he conceals his twisted arm hidden behind his back at almost all times.
And when kneeling is required—an oft-administered maneuver of persuasion—he removes a pin from his leg brace, allowing his knee to bend. The action is unapologetic and yet, on some level, Richard seems aware that the extra effort does inspire a modicum of sympathy.
Counter to what is said of Richard or what he seems to think of himself, Fox is not made to seem ugly, sickly, old or in ill health, aside from obvious physical limitations. He is healthy, strong and, for what it’s worth, handsome. He woos the recently-widowed Anne with flattery and skewed emotional logic, even with her husband’s bloodied corpse in sight, and Anne succumbs to Richard.
After a successful seduction, albeit one that redefines bad timing and poor taste, Fox launches into the speech "Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?/ Was ever woman in this humour won?" Rife with wit and conversationally engaging, Fox’s Richard has won the audience and become the rather likable anti-hero.
Conspiring next to Buckingham and the others in his camp of supporters, Richard joyously pursues his aims, leading to several very humorous situations that maintain the audience’s support for the first half of the play.
With the exception of three minor and well-handled opening night line stumbles, Fox’s entire performance is completely in command of itself, not a moment of the text’s logic missed, overrun or taken for granted. As Richard nears his goal and fears for security of its attainment, Fox steps into the anxiety and frustration, as well as sheer terror and remorse at the bombastic momentary return of an exiled conscience during a dream sequence.
In a play of this length (Shakespeare’s second-longest after Hamlet) it is very important that Richard is really good or little else matters. Riverside’s production succeeds in its casting of Dennis Fox. But Fox is not the only one doing great work. The entire cast—even the acting interns—are very competent with a number of standouts.
Tim Budd, as Lord Buckingham, has magnetic stage presence and, as collaborator and fellow conspirer, creates an exciting, charged chemistry with Richard. Later, when Buckingham is betrayed by Richard, Budd makes Buckingham’s remorse for having supported Richard palatable and believable.
Ron Clark, as the dying King Edward IV, provides some of the play’s much-needed penitence and believable sorrow necessary to depict the true destruction Richard has produced. Edward’s attempts to bring peace to his warring house and his lamentations over the death of his brother Clarence inspire compassion and sympathy. Clark also plays the mayor, duped by Richard and Buckingham in one of the play’s comical moments, and leads the audience to complicity in crying out “Long live our sovereign, Richard King of England.”
Other solid performances include Jody Hovland, as Richard’s mother, the Duchess of York, Steve Cardamone as Clarence, Patrick DuLaney as Hastings, Michael Perez as Catesby, Jordan Laroya as both a murderer and as the assassin Tyrell, and several others.
Saren Nofs-Snyder, who plays Queen Margaret, possesses a professional-grade, seasoned instrument and is regal and intimidating. Though borderline melodramatic at times, she assumes a mystical quality as prophetess of Richard’s destruction and is effectively added to several scenes where Margaret’s predictions return to haunt those who failed to heed them.
The other primary female roles, Anne and Elizabeth, are played by two quite capable actresses. In their collective performances, however, lies one shared problem. It is one of the few criticisms I have with the show, but it’s an important one. Each actress, in her own way, glosses over the devastating loss and maddening pain that her character has endured.
As Anne, Mallory Portnoy has a fairly clear understanding of what Anne is supposed to be going through, but her performance is more of a “shape of experience” than a real, rooted, nuanced experience of loss and grief. Moments of “put-upon” emotion and a forced vocal shakiness give the performance an air of falsehood. Granted, Anne has one of the most difficult scenes of all Shakespearean female roles. Transitioning from very fresh, very deep loss and shock to reluctant seduction by the man who caused her such pain is a little hard to make emotional sense of. Portnoy is a fine actress—and does succeed in telling the story—but she could take the performance to a new level by deepening her experience as an actress.
As Elizabeth, Dawn Michelle Mancarella is quite sturdy and commanding, but, when she discovers her babes are murdered, the actress barely approaches the depth of shock and loss a mother would feel. In fact, when Richard turns up right away to woo Elizabeth to relinquish her daughter in marriage, Mancarella is quick to jump into a tennis match of dialogue with Richard, completely stepping over the profound emotional realization of what’s just been taken from her forever.
Again, these are good actresses playing emotionally difficult roles. The challenges are no small feats. If their portrayals afforded more vulnerability and risk, it would be of tremendous service to the play as a whole.
Seemingly set in the World War I era, the play opens with energetic, period music and the presentation of the cast in costumes and mild mannerisms of the day. The signifiers of the time period are subtle and work well, including a telephone and other modern set pieces, frequent cigarette smoking, modern weaponry, and sound cues of aircraft, bombs and machine gun fire.
The set’s simplicity serves the play well. In fact, there isn’t much “set” to speak of. The beautiful flood-survivor-of-a-venue provides a foundation of stairs, balconies, levels, and uses the seating aisles to create depth of staging. The music, judiciously used, is dreamy with an undercurrent pulse that helps drive transitions and weightier moments. The lighting effectively directs mood, tone and focus and, coupled with accompanying visual effects, gives a mystical quality to a surprisingly frightening dream sequence.
Richard III runs through July 12, along with A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It is an impressive night of professional theatre in a beautiful and unique setting.
Angie Toomsen has an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa and a BA in theatre from UNI. She spent nearly a decade in New York City, seeing, participating in and studying theatre. She still enjoys writing, acting and directing as time permits.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Review of Lear's Daughters
Dreamwell – This past weekend I attended the opening of Dreamwell’s Lear’s Daughters, directed by Gerry Roe. Conceived by poet Elaine Feinstein, Lear’s Daughters is an extension/adaptation of King Lear, collaboratively penned by London’s Women’s Theatre Group in the late 1980’s.Not having seen a performance or adaptation of King Lear in at least eight years—unless you count a showing of Kirosawa’s Ran—I kicked myself all the way to theatre for not taking the time to dust off my Shakespeare anthology and brush up a
bit. In fact, my Riverside Shakespeare currently serves as an ergonomic prop for the monitor I am gazing at as I write this review. It does get more than one gander a year, but not this hectic week. I was sure I had blown my chance to grasp the real-time nuances of Lear’s Daughters. Not so, it turned out.
At least half of all contemporary Shakespeare stagings I have seen—from Broadway to church basement—have started with a “What if?” What if Hamlet is set on Mars? What if Romeo and Juliet is about two opposing rap posses on the streets of L.A.? What if Regan, Goneril and Cordelia are Paris, Britney and Lindsay? (Please, no one get any ideas about that last one).
Adaptations, on the other hand, bifurcate into “What If’s?” and “Why’s?” Lear’s Daughters seems to have stemmed from a “Why?” Why are Lear’s two eldest daughters so cold, manipulative and disingenuous? Why is Cordelia the favorite? Where’s the Queen and what influence did she have on the girls? What made them who they are? Prior knowledge of King Lear did provide critical fodder, but I didn’t sense I was missing any crucial “Easter Eggs” that would have been clarified by a more recent review of King Lear. All of this is to say that Lear’s Daughters stands quite nicely on its own and the ability to draw minute correlations between Lear’s Daughters and text of King Lear is not a prerequisite to enjoying this show.
Lear’s Daughters is an episodic affair. The Fool (Vicki Krajewski) marks each chapter with a pun-filled introduction and a stylized nameplate displayed on easel at the corner of the proscenium. Unlike Lear, where plot is “king,” Daughters is a character study. The princesses introduce themselves with musings on their respective artistic inclinations. Regan (Emily Dokken) is a carver who “creates beauty from distortion.” Goneril (Becca Robinson) is a painter. Cordelia (Elisabeth Ross) has a love for words. The princesses are “shut in,” overlooking the kingdom and countryside, entertained by an androgynous Fool and raised by “two mothers…one paying, one paid.” The “one paid” is a caring Nurse (Deone Peterson) who processes happenings through the filter of fairy tale. As she spins it, the birth of each girl was marked by a storm or a comet which, if taken to mean thwarted passions, can be perceived as figurative truth.
Of the unseen and neglectful Lear, the Nurse awe-strikes with tales of Lear’s grandeur, fueling his daughters’ idealizations. It once rained for forty days and, when he came home—as Nurse tells it—the sun came out. The girls beg for stories, but, as time wears on, the fabrications only serve to twist the knife of longing for an absent father.
As for the mother—the “one paying”—the Queen (played by the Fool) is leaked of life. Castle accountant and defective “male-child-machine” for Lear, the Queen is anxious and cold toward the princesses. When asked if their mother loves them, the Nurse replies: “when she has the time.” Her death via miscarriage is glossed over, like everything else in their lives.
Each character in Lear’s Daughters is cramped into a role, seemingly defined by Lear. Goneril assumes the accounts when the Queen dies. Regan is only worth what caliber of husband she can attract. Cordelia, the youngest and favorite, must “spin for daddy” on cue. Cordelia remarks how she has two voices—that of daddy’s girl and a dormant yet formidable voice within. Even the Nurse gave up her own child to feed the Queen’s children and remarks, when “let go” from her position, that Lear gets his use of people and casts them aside.
The only party to recognize the inherent currency exchange—literal and figurative—that role playing affords is the Fool, who earns shiny silver pieces to do and be what the girls desire. A professed lover of money, the Fool philosophizes that money and “investment”—being taken care of—has a countable cost. Lear only wants each of them in as much as they fulfill a need, in exchange for security. They are all taken care of, but at what cost to the storms and passions they harbor?
If you are following along in your Shakespeare anthology, this is the thematic point where the “Why” bridges back to the original play. The innocence of youth and raw self esteem is world-wearied by neglect, disappointment and the absence of parental affection.
The performances in Lear’s Daughters are strong and unique. As the younger princesses, Dokken and Ross offer innocence and genuine girlishness to their roles. Dokken has a particularly difficult scene—one that strikes contemporary chords—that she handles believably. As Goneril, Robinson is striking and wears the weight of the eldest child with a sense of truth.
Peterson is a sturdy, spirited presence as the Nurse and her role as mother figure to the girls is genuine. Her scenes with the Fool are both touching and comical.
Anchoring the entire play is Krajewski’s performance as the Fool. Never missing a beat, Krajewski is agile and “on pointe,” ushering each scene with jovial urgency and a sense of play. Where there can be a tendency in less seasoned performers to barrel through the beats, Krajewski’s performance finds every syllable and gesture reduced to its finest component and mined to its physical potential. As I watched her perform, it occurred to me that that the performance of the Fool makes-or-breaks the whole show. Well, this Fool “makes it.”
At ninety minutes (with no intermission) Dreamwell’s production of Lear’s Daughters is a breezy, yet very substantive evening of theatre. I recommend it—whether-or-not you’ve read King Lear in last eight years—or ever.
--Angie Toomsen
Angie Toomsen has an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa and a BA in theatre from UNI. She spent nearly a decade in New York City, seeing, participating in and studying theatre. She still enjoys writing, acting and directing as time permits.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Pillowman review
Dreamwell - I live so close to all of the really great things in Iowa City. I can enjoy tapas at Devotay, browse the wine aisle at the Pioneer Food Coop, or watch them toss pizza dough at Pagliai’s—all within in a matter of minutes.
Apparently, I am also a stone’s throw from really solid theatre work.
Saturday night, I left my house at approximately 7:23 p.m., strolled a leisurely four minutes to the Univeralist Unitarian Society basement and took a seat for the evening’s 7:30 p.m. curtain. Home-to-curtain in seven minutes—gotta love it.
The players: Dreamwell Theatre. The production: Martin McDonagh’s Tony Award winning, The Pillowman directed by Josh Sazon. The next two-and-a-half hours: a beautiful, layered—and very sinister—tale conveyed by a highly capable ensemble.
McDonagh, also known for The Leenane Trilogy and the more recent Aran Islands Trilogy, takes a chilling turn with The Pillowman. Katurian K. Katurian (yes that’s his name)—who lives “somewhere” and in “some time” in a totalitarian regime—writes short stories, all of which bear his signature motif: horrific child murders.
Katurian (Kevin Moore) has been taken into custody by two detectives who draw inimitable parallels between the subject matter of several of his most grisly works and a series of real child murders in the area. The detectives—the dry and composed Tupolski (Chuck Dufano) and the bombastic Ariel (Gary Barth)—grill Katurian as though every fictional detail read aloud is viable forensic evidence. The “good cop/bad cop” duo even brings Katurian’s “slower” brother, Michal, in on charges of dutifully enacting the crimes as instructed by his brother’s stories.
The setting (and narrative) shifts from a stark gray, high-walled box of an interrogation room where Tupolski and Ariel question Katurian—and where the tortured screams of his brother can be overheard in a nearby cell—to “story time” with a stylized telling of Katurian’s childhood horrors. Scott Schoonover’s set eases the transition by opening like a story book to reveal the warm hearth of a family home.
Katurian accounts the story of a young Katurian, whose parents loved him and cherished his nascent writing talent such that they tortured an unseen brother for seven years in an adjacent room. They hypothesized that, if the impressionable Katurian was subjected to the faceless, muffled sounds of torture, he would warp around the edges just enough to outgrow childish stories about little green pigs. The experiment was an unequivocal success.
Even after Tupolski and Ariel shift blame for the murders to Michal, Ariel further presses Katurian for writing the stories at all, as though writing stories of such a nature—for no apparent reason—makes Katurian complicit in the child deaths. When the interrogation turns to this line of questioning, the play’s broader issues fade into focus. What is the responsibility of the writer? (Or the video game creator? Or the filmmaker?) Also, does an artist have to be tortured to scour the depths? Does art even require depth?
As I began to ponder such rhetorical questions, I was given pause by Katurian’s own explanation—or lack thereof.
Katurian contends his stories don’t mean anything and are written as ends in-and-of themselves. I couldn’t help but wonder if—not unlike the characteristically clue-drenched “play within a play”—the “writer within a play” isn’t somehow the author himself telling me, through Katurian, not to look so deeply past the story into its “meaning,” lest I miss the point.
This is probably a weird thing to hear, given the subject matter of The Pillowman, but the play is also really funny. Much of the humor is McDonagh’s, but with equal parts Chuck Dufano. As Topolski, Dufano blends genuine accessibility with a loftily administered sarcasm that could make the phone book a funny listen. Katurian’s assertion that the interrogation is “like school” is answered by Dufano’s sardonic delivery: “except at school they didn’t execute you at the end…unless you went to a really #&*% tough school.”
Gary Barth (Ariel), Alex Moore (Michal), and Kevin Moore (Katurian) bring sturdy acting talent to the Dreamwell stage. I was delighted to see three pivotal characters handled by three guys who have, clearly, done this before. Each demonstrated seasoned chops and respective exceptional moments of intensity, intelligence and connectedness.
Kevin Moore, as Katurian, has an actor’s instrument. And he needs it for this role. Though there was a little bit of what I attributed to opening night “too much energy for the task” in the beginning of the interrogation scene, Moore took the ride and stepped into the role of storyteller, tortured (literally) artist and caring brother, luring the audience along a complicated (and very wordy) journey.
Jeff Emrich and Robin McCright do double duty as Katurian’s “Leave-it-to-Beaver-a-la-Roman-Polanski” parents and as the sick and abusive foster parents of a young girl in one of Katurian’s stories. As Katurian’s parents, they are the “smiliest” people you’ll ever hate.
And speaking of a “young girl,” yes, there is a little girl in the play—and, I gather, a pretty open-minded stage mom waiting in the wings. And that’s all I am going to say about that, lest I give anything away to all of the people who should see one of the remaining performances this week.
Whether you have a four-minute walk or an hour drive, The Pillowman is worth the journey.
--Angie Toomsen
Angie Toomsen has an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa and a BA in theatre from UNI. She spent nearly a decade in New York City, seeing, participating in and studying theatre. She still enjoys writing, acting and directing as time permits.
Apparently, I am also a stone’s throw from really solid theatre work.
Saturday night, I left my house at approximately 7:23 p.m., strolled a leisurely four minutes to the Univeralist Unitarian Society basement and took a seat for the evening’s 7:30 p.m. curtain. Home-to-curtain in seven minutes—gotta love it.
The players: Dreamwell Theatre. The production: Martin McDonagh’s Tony Award winning, The Pillowman directed by Josh Sazon. The next two-and-a-half hours: a beautiful, layered—and very sinister—tale conveyed by a highly capable ensemble.
McDonagh, also known for The Leenane Trilogy and the more recent Aran Islands Trilogy, takes a chilling turn with The Pillowman. Katurian K. Katurian (yes that’s his name)—who lives “somewhere” and in “some time” in a totalitarian regime—writes short stories, all of which bear his signature motif: horrific child murders.
Katurian (Kevin Moore) has been taken into custody by two detectives who draw inimitable parallels between the subject matter of several of his most grisly works and a series of real child murders in the area. The detectives—the dry and composed Tupolski (Chuck Dufano) and the bombastic Ariel (Gary Barth)—grill Katurian as though every fictional detail read aloud is viable forensic evidence. The “good cop/bad cop” duo even brings Katurian’s “slower” brother, Michal, in on charges of dutifully enacting the crimes as instructed by his brother’s stories.
The setting (and narrative) shifts from a stark gray, high-walled box of an interrogation room where Tupolski and Ariel question Katurian—and where the tortured screams of his brother can be overheard in a nearby cell—to “story time” with a stylized telling of Katurian’s childhood horrors. Scott Schoonover’s set eases the transition by opening like a story book to reveal the warm hearth of a family home.
Katurian accounts the story of a young Katurian, whose parents loved him and cherished his nascent writing talent such that they tortured an unseen brother for seven years in an adjacent room. They hypothesized that, if the impressionable Katurian was subjected to the faceless, muffled sounds of torture, he would warp around the edges just enough to outgrow childish stories about little green pigs. The experiment was an unequivocal success.
Even after Tupolski and Ariel shift blame for the murders to Michal, Ariel further presses Katurian for writing the stories at all, as though writing stories of such a nature—for no apparent reason—makes Katurian complicit in the child deaths. When the interrogation turns to this line of questioning, the play’s broader issues fade into focus. What is the responsibility of the writer? (Or the video game creator? Or the filmmaker?) Also, does an artist have to be tortured to scour the depths? Does art even require depth?
As I began to ponder such rhetorical questions, I was given pause by Katurian’s own explanation—or lack thereof.
Katurian contends his stories don’t mean anything and are written as ends in-and-of themselves. I couldn’t help but wonder if—not unlike the characteristically clue-drenched “play within a play”—the “writer within a play” isn’t somehow the author himself telling me, through Katurian, not to look so deeply past the story into its “meaning,” lest I miss the point.
This is probably a weird thing to hear, given the subject matter of The Pillowman, but the play is also really funny. Much of the humor is McDonagh’s, but with equal parts Chuck Dufano. As Topolski, Dufano blends genuine accessibility with a loftily administered sarcasm that could make the phone book a funny listen. Katurian’s assertion that the interrogation is “like school” is answered by Dufano’s sardonic delivery: “except at school they didn’t execute you at the end…unless you went to a really #&*% tough school.”
Gary Barth (Ariel), Alex Moore (Michal), and Kevin Moore (Katurian) bring sturdy acting talent to the Dreamwell stage. I was delighted to see three pivotal characters handled by three guys who have, clearly, done this before. Each demonstrated seasoned chops and respective exceptional moments of intensity, intelligence and connectedness.
Kevin Moore, as Katurian, has an actor’s instrument. And he needs it for this role. Though there was a little bit of what I attributed to opening night “too much energy for the task” in the beginning of the interrogation scene, Moore took the ride and stepped into the role of storyteller, tortured (literally) artist and caring brother, luring the audience along a complicated (and very wordy) journey.
Jeff Emrich and Robin McCright do double duty as Katurian’s “Leave-it-to-Beaver-a-la-Roman-Polanski” parents and as the sick and abusive foster parents of a young girl in one of Katurian’s stories. As Katurian’s parents, they are the “smiliest” people you’ll ever hate.
And speaking of a “young girl,” yes, there is a little girl in the play—and, I gather, a pretty open-minded stage mom waiting in the wings. And that’s all I am going to say about that, lest I give anything away to all of the people who should see one of the remaining performances this week.
Whether you have a four-minute walk or an hour drive, The Pillowman is worth the journey.
--Angie Toomsen
Angie Toomsen has an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa and a BA in theatre from UNI. She spent nearly a decade in New York City, seeing, participating in and studying theatre. She still enjoys writing, acting and directing as time permits.
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