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
While it may be a stretch to call The Sea and Poison a dance piece, the four members of the Chicago-based performance troupe Goat Island certainly know how to hop. Attuned to an interior music no one else can hear, the actors jump around in vaguely geometric zigzags on a square of light. The choreography, like the dramatic structure as a whole, is as patterned as it is intuitivethere's clearly a method to the madness, though good luck trying to crack the code. Several audience members at the Kitchen never made it past the human pogoing marathon to witness the equally mysterious riffs on biological and societal poisonseverything from pesticides and Gulf War fallout to Camay's beauty soap advertising. Presented in a blurry, antinarrative fashion, the production never stoops to didactic assault on our environmental waywardness. It's really more of an exercise in movement, imagery, and pacingwith treadmill-like longueurs that occasionally give way to visions of toxic apocalypse.
Two moments stand out. The first involves the lone female performer (Karen Christopher) showering under a stream of bug spray, her brunette head turning a carcinogenic gray. The other features the gaunt, bulging-eyed figure of Matthew Goulish being dragged about the stage like precious battlefield debrisa would-be corpse in search of proper burial. The thematic resonance of these scenes justified Lin Hixson's unhurried direction; the rest trickled out with a monotony that had many in their seats scanning for an exit. Goat Island imposes a unique physical discipline on their spatial collages. Their hallucinatory imagination, however, isn't sufficiently distilled. Charles McNulty
A Final Act
Grab a hunk of Beowulf, layer on some Animal House, slather with Shakespeare, and sprinkle liberally with Faulkner: There you have The Death of Don Flagrante Delicto, Kirk Wood Bromley's verse opus (Greenwich Street Theater).
Plot it has aplenty. As news of the South's defeat reaches the mad slaveholder-playwright of the title, he determines to use the staging of his playacted by family and slavesas a means of mass suicide, poisoning them all in the last act. He makes literal the phrase "captive audience" by corralling three assorted war refugees and chaining them to watch his Augustine the Gud, Aethelbert the Bad, about the Anglo-Saxons' conversion to Christianity. They are not amused, but you will be.
Delicto's Aethelbert is a hilarious send-up of epic sagas, complete with Karen Flood's over-the-top costumes of skins, horns, heads, and Day-Glo tights. Accents range from the Nordic to the hillbilly, the music from Gregorian chant to bluegrass. Yokels with blackened teeth two-step to the kazoo, while clerics in hot-pink robes throb sweet harmonies. Director Howard Thoresen manages this moonshine with a broad slapstick sweep, and the cast is studded with comic gold, especially Joshua Spafford as the hunky Aethelbert, Julie Lund as the heroic wench Bertha, and the trio of Darius Stone, Dave Shalansky, and Melanie Martinez as the rap sistas and other hangers-on.
The real star of the piece, though, is the language. Blending the Latinate, the vulgar, and the preposterous, Bromley playfully conjures dialects, puns, conceits, and outlandish rhymes to hysterical effect. In his lip-smacking fantasy about his bride-to-be, Aethelbert salutes her "girgungous titys" and "pubis small as a Franklin pin."
Entertaining as all this is, it would be funnier at half its three-hour length. Of the play outside the play-within-a-play, the less said the better. When Bromley tackles it straight, you feel your only real kinship with any of his charactersthe audience in chains. Francine Russo
As the audience files into the theater, the actors tear about the set. In dim silhouette they dance, struggle, sprint, and shriek in standard-issue cacophony. One voice, somewhat louder than the rest, screams, "Victim, victim! You're all victims!" No kidding. And the play hasn't even begun yet.
In some ways, Roberto Zucco (Currican Theatre) never really does begin. Director Daniel Safer is so intent on showing off his auteuristic chops (in this scene, someone's gonna shit onstage! Then we're gonna exploit offensive Fu Manchu stereotypes!) that the rather excellent text gets lost. The play itselfby dead French bad-boy Bernard-Marie Koltes in a translation by Martin Crimptakes liberties with the history of French murderer Roberto Succo. Koltes resets Succo's crimes in a rotten, entropic worldwhich goes by the name of Little Chicago. And he makes a fascinating move in alternately vilifying and deifying his hero, robbing the play of any moral center.
But between the nakedness, the fake blood, and the eardrum-bursting music, you can't help but think of Tallulah Bankhead's quip: "There is less here than meets the eye." Safer's clearly bright, and he directs with considerable verve, but his overheated imagination gets in the way of the script. In the principal role, Peter Bisgaier communicates psychotrauma and savagery up the wazoo without ever arriving at a real character. The women actors, particularly Jessma Evans as a nubile little number, generally fare better.
Confidential to Mr. Safer: I'm sure the budget's tight, but it's hard believing in a master criminal who only uses a finger gun. Alexis Soloski