By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Given the logistical realities (a show must often set up in 15 minutes), there's no getting around the slapped-together feeling of much of the work. And if serious, groundbreaking experiment is what you're after, the general low-key whimsy may grow a bit tedious. Still, there seems little point in asking, as so many journalists have, whether the city "needs" a Fringe Festival of its own. Since when is "need" the litmus test for anything involving passion, imagination, and commitment?
Which doesn't mean we shouldn't lament the paltry ambition and undisciplined execution of much of the fare. Of course, it would be unfair to generalize too negatively when one has seen only 10 percent of the total package. And no doubt your method of selecting shows isn't going to be the same as mine. Confounded by a program of largely unrecognizable names and titles, I decided to see as many works as possible promising either sexual or spiritual salvation. Needless to say, the unspoken fantasy was to encounter a work that could somehow mystically combine the two.
Still, my list had to be pruned. In a somewhat capricious manner, I nixed The Pimp Clause, Killer Kondom, and something by Joyce Carol Oates called I Stand Before You Naked. The Whore From Harlem and Sodom, or the Quintessence of Debauchery were placed on temporary hold. That left nearly a dozen and a half to choose from, not counting those with a religious theme. (Oh, August is the cruelest month!)
Antonio Sacre's solo piece My Penis In and Out of Trouble quickly rose to the top and not because of the Festival guide's taunting blurb, "Come and be molested." No, Mr. Sacre happens to be a serious artist who won a Best Acting Award in the 1997 Fringe Festival. (His postcard also shows him to be quite a hunk!) Apparently, I fell straight into his trap.
Sitting on a chair amid hundreds of strewn photographs, the tall, dark, pony-tailed performer picks one up off the floor. "This is my penis, age seven," he says in a neutral tone, before recalling an innocent childhood erotic incident. Meditating over another Polaroid moment of his young schlong, he suddenly tears the evidence up into pieces. Later, while examining pictures of himself at more advanced years, he talks about his compulsive sexual practices with women. He also confesses to having occasional random thoughts about young people's bodies when having sex. In time, he begins to make the connection between the torn-up photo and his own troubled adult libido.
What is so remarkable about this personal exploration of childhood sexual abuse is the way Sacre avoids pop psychological clichés. His style is that of a naturalist whose subject just happens to be his own past. Only toward the end of his journey does he become rhetorical about his victimization, releasing his anger in a generic, textbook-like voice. His finale, however, makes for gripping drama. Before leaving the stage, he takes the audience to task for wanting to "get off" at his show. "Are you disappointed?" he asks. "Or just ashamed?" He then storms out of the theater in a flourish that would have left me even more red-faced had he refused to come back to take his bow.
On the way to see what turned out to be an incoherent spin-off of Genet known as Roses That Pierce the Night (more like The Queens of Cell Block H), I ducked in to see Marga Gomez's Jaywalker, a New York Latina lesbian's take on the perils of not having a car in Hollywood. "How many of you out there hate L.A.?" she asks, to a round of deafening applause. Recalling the time she spent searching for a TV role that wasn't a drug addict or maid, she explains how her solitary pedestrian presence upset traffic patterns all across Santa Monica Boulevard. Blisters and casting-agent rejections seemed like her exclusive West Coast fate that is, until her epiphany at John Tesh's star on the Walk of Fame, where suddenly "it seemed like anything was possible." If Gomez's standup style is still somewhat raw, her material has a smart and savvy edge.
By this point, I'm afraid, all the false advertising in the Fringe guide began to get on my nerves. The Oops Guys' The Naked Guy claims that "Someone's gonna get naked tonight!" but he failed to materialize during the first half (all I could endure) of an hour-long gay sitcom that makes Three's Company look like a work of towering genius. Meanwhile, The Job a slightly more amusing skit about a group of young college-bound students who, in exchange for free tuition, sign up for a scientific experiment involving the effects of giving 300 blow jobs dangled the phony carrot of "optional audience participation after the show."