By R.C. Baker
By Alexis Soloski
By Alexis Soloski
By R. C. Baker
By Alexis Soloski
By Tom Sellar
By Araceli Cruz
By Brienne Walsh
Maybe it was a lengthy sojourn in her native California that prompted Faye Driscoll to re-examine her childhood and the environment in which she grew up, and then create 837 Venice Blvd. Although an announcement for the piece billed it as a rigorous physical exploration into the question of identity, several sagely employed theatrical devices distance the performers from memory-lane, psychiatrists-couch revelations. 837 emerges as a wild, ferocious, wrenching, and hilarious piece of dance theater, enacted by three collaborating artists who are all these thingssometimes simultaneously.
In terms of the works structure and ambiance, Venice Beach, California, surely played a rolenot its sea view but its population of free spirits, artists, street performers, beach body-builders, surfers, fortune tellers, nut cases, and well, ordinary citizens. Established by a single entrepreneur as a combination of Coney Island and Venice, Italy, its grandest days as a resort are over. Driscoll takes her tone in part from its rag-tag theatricality. Two wooden supports as fat as telephone poles hold a red velvet curtain that allows for some shenanigans (heads poking out, fabric lashing from conflicts behind it). The first image is of Celia Rowison-Hall singing a breathless, increasingly surreal song based on Will Oldhams I Am a Cinematographer, while alternating between hand-cranking an invisible camera and shaking her head furiously. Home movies, anyone?
Ideas borrowed from puppetry serve to skew Driscolls and the performers recollections and identity markers. In the beginning, Nikki Zialcita, hidden behind Michael Helland, pushes him forward, moves his arms, and speaks in a phony simulacrum of Hellands voice to create a swishy caricature of him. He cooperates in the illusion, although he remains embarrassedly aloof when her forearm, thrust at us between his legs, becomes a hungry talking penis. Then Helland gets behind Zialcita to present her as super-butch, sneering, and foul-mouthed. The 60-minute piece ends with a long disintegrating sequence in which the two of them carry Rowison-Hall through an extended ballet solo. Its both funny and excruciating. Rowison-Hall is slender and long-limbed, and this is an aspiring dancers fantasy-nightmare. Her friends gamely hoist her and twist her, lift her legs high, make her soar. She feels (and is) beautiful. Most of the time. But this is exhausting for all three. At one point, they shove her up one of the two additional poles, and park her there, clinging like a monkey, while they take a panting time-out. Eventually, the positions they maul her into are blurred beyond recognition, and you ache for all three performers.
Earlier, they frolic and squeal like kids running amok; they play favorites with a sandwich; they get scared and clutch one another; they dance together. But suddenly, as Helland and Rowison-Hall note, Zialcita starts getting a little weird. In the remarkable and virtuosic solo that ensues, she moves and grunts as if several forces were battling for her body and soul. The one thats usually winning is the muscle-pumping, hunched-over, spoiling-for-a-fight dude; the others suggest a sexy female and the playful neighborhood pal.
In the most arresting and disturbing sequence, the three perform in unison what might be a dance-school recital number wearing gold and red capes. Out of nowhere, Rowison-Hall calls a haltno, howls at them to stop; theyre screwing up the routine. She then launches into a hair-raising monologue, morphing from what might be an angry chum to a disappointed teacher or ranting parent into a hatred-spewing, homophobic, racist bigot. I believe that the words she shouts to tear them down may represent Hellands and Zialcitas own worst imaginings as to what others might think of them, because, while the two stand mute and humble, she denigrates Helland for his homosexuality and Zialcita for her Philippine background. What she snarls at them for what seems a very long time is so shockingly over the top and eventually so absurd that you laugh even as you cringe. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Rowison-Halls performance is how she begins to crumpleher voice breaking, her eyes fillingso that this time when she says, You might as well die, shes talking about herself, and the others take her hands and make them stroke her into calmness.
What Ive written doesnt convey the subtleties and the transitions that the script and the wonderful performers explore. 837 Venice Blvd, directed as well as choreographed by Driscoll, is full of surprises. So is Sara C. Walshs set. Several times, performers retreat into, or make a break for, the spaces offstage behind the black side curtains, giving us fleeting glimpses of the real world outside this circus: a tiny patio on one side, where Rowlson-Hall and Helland retreat to drink lemonade during Zialcitas identity crisis; on the other, a living room couch and lit-up table lamp; also, a kitchen with white cabinets, into which Rowlson-Hall rushes in an effort to shake her handlers.
The Here Art Centers announcement for Driscolls show also mentioned how exhausting it is to keep being somebody all the time. Thats certainly a subject this crazily brave and devastating work plunges into. To the hilt.