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
With the Fringe-begot Urinetown!'s three Tony awards, numerous off-Broadway transfers, and the newfound moneymaking, it's tempting to accuse the Fringe of having sloughed off its skin of indie cred, of having all the edge of a pâté knife. Gone are the days of artistic ambition and groundbreaking theatrics. Now it functions as industry showcase and launching pador so the story goes.
But having attended five of the Fringe's six festivals and covered three, I'm confident that each year never boasted more than a handful of risky, "fringey" works. Judging from the 20 or so plays witnessed this year, while a few entries do display some distressingly canned professionalism or reactionary ideology, most are as scrappy and spontaneous and, well, shitty as in Fringes past. With its grand scalenearly 200 shows performed over 17 days in 20 venuesthe festival guarantees a muddle of daring and complacency. It also guarantees small companies a chance to find an audience, and not just any audience, but one comprised primarily of 18-to-35-year-oldsa great rarity in New York theater circleswith decades of theater-going ahead of them.
This edition boasts the typical array of one-person shows and small-cast musicals, revamped classics and playwriting debuts, unfunny comedy and irreverent drama. Surprisingly, if not unhappily, September 11 makes itself little felt (though the afterglow of civic pride may have something to do with the high ticket sales). In fact, few general themes emerge, save some plays detailing corporate avarice and the plight of wage laborers (people in the theater will always have day jobs), as well as the usual complement of violence- or sex-based pieces.
Titillation has its uses, and a show managing to combine both sex and violence beat out the competition. In the autobiographical Spanked!, real-life boyfriends Ian MacKinnon and Aaron Hartzler trace how the terrors of childhood paddlings metamorphosed into a pleasurable adult activity. The young men have ingested too many self-help books (a pall of pop psychology clings to the production, most notably in references to "the light of my gay soul"), but they are candid and likable performers, well-served by director Jacob Titus, though he might have insisted on some editingthe emphasis is definitely on bikini rather than brief. And for the more sheltered spectator (self very much included) the spanking demonstration is indeedas Hartzler wryly notesworth the cost of admission. That demonstration is braveas is the wearing of leopard-print "man panties" while crooning "Love Hurts"but braver still are the moments in which the men admit failure in reconciling themselves with their pasts or their own discomfort with the material.
Discomfort with the material is the comic seed for Resa Fantastiskt Mystisk, an ostensible masterwork by underappreciated Strindberg contemporary and goose herder Lars Mattsun. As the director Todd Merrill explains in his anxious curtain speech, the play is a masterful parable of artistic creation and he's tremendously concerned that the audience "get" it. To facilitate, he's distributed wireless headsets so that he can provide guidance and clarification. A dead-on parody of DVD commentary tracks, Merrill recites lines along with actors, grows snippy when a scene goes awry, and offers insipid nuggets such as "Here Philip retreats within himself." The play ought to have retreated from its 90-minute run time, as one joke, however amusing, is still one joke.
Here's another joke: What if the script for Good Will Hunting fellquite literally and mysteriouslyinto the laps of pre-fame Matt Damon and Ben Affleck? In Matt and Ben, as conceived and performed by Mindy Kaling and Brenda Withers, the phenomenon occasions a rift and retrenchment in the now legendary friendship. Kaling and Withers might have better mimicked the hunks' speech patterns and gestural vocabulary, but they attempt their roles with gusto and requisite cockinessas Affleck notes, "We're white, we're handsome, we're American, we were in School Ties." Unlike many of Damon and Affleck's subsequent projects, Matt and Ben has an affectionate eccentricityparticularly dream sequences involving Gwyneth Paltrow and J.D. Salingerthat excuses much of the imprecision and plotlessness.
As in every festival, there are certain projects nothing could excuse (OK, maybe vast amounts of money slid through the ticket window to me). Death in the City has the clever premise of improvising a show based on information from the day's obituaries. But the performance reviewed, a tribute to the life of Vietnamese dissident Tran Do, found the actors incapable of establishing chronology or character, nor could they decide whether or not Tran was the surnameeffectively, a Tran don't. In Assorted States and Clean Living, Blindspot demonstrates a similar level of improvisatory incompetence, though they fare slightly better in the sketch-comedy portion of their show, especially a bit featuring renegade stewardesses. A Night of Shitty Theatre more or less lives up to its name (it was an afternoon, technically), although the intentionally awful scenes scripted by Joe Wack might have been hilarious had they not been performed with such insufferable knowing. Altogether unknowing was the dance-theater piece Stalking Christopher Walken, which made the logical snafu, "Hey, Christopher Walken is weird, so if we put in a lot of other weird stuff, like St. Marks aliens and descending bananas, well, that should work." Makes you want to tell them to put a stalk in it.