In addition to writing for The SunBreak, Courtney freelances around Seattle as a playwright, dramaturg, and director. She also writes fiction and analytical essays about queer performance theory. Nothing makes a party quite as interesting as discussing queer performance theory. It's like guacamole.
Hannah Mootz, Corey Spruill, and Brandon Ryan in A Behanding in Spokane (Photo: D Hastings)
What would you do to have an appendage returned? Would you kill for it? Would you keep appendages belonging to other people in your suitcase as a growing reminder that there are millions of missing limbs in the world, and none of them are yours? These are the questions posed by Theater Schmeater‘s A Behanding in Spokane (through February 23; tickets). And when I say “posed” I actually mean hacked-away-by-train.
Martin McDonagh’s play looks at a roughneck, racist desperately trying to find his hand that a group of redneck hooligans heartlessly removed via an oncoming train many years previous. Obviously, it’s a comedy, if you like your comedy in McDonagh style with macabre sensibilities.
Directed by Peggy Gannon, A Behanding in Spokane is uncomfortable and delightful, much like reading internet comments or spending time on Reddit. Gordon Carpenter as the handless Carmichael is low and fierce, with a sick determination to blow people up and reclaim what’s rightfully his. (Having once interrogated my sisters over a missing a shoe, I completely understand his ferocity and pyromania.)
Hannah Mootz and Corey Spruill as the out-of-their-element couple plotting to scam Carmichael (with a hand that’s clearly not his) have that just-awkward-enough chemistry to believe they’d try to pull a fast on a psychotic person. (Silly you.) Brandon Ryan’s portrayal of the hotel receptionist, Mervyn, who just wants to be the hero (albeit, for the wrong reasons), continually fails at barely being a stand-up guy making him fantastically creepy throughout.
And though I’m loath to be that person who quotes the director’s note, I really enjoyed Gannon’s comments (dare I say, defense?) on comedy in the program: “In tragedy, people die; but in comedy, they have to go on living. Dude. That’s some serious shit.” Yes. Yes, it is.
Typical McDonagh, no one’s the hero, everyone’s stupid, and it’s always too soon (and yet, not too soon) to make Columbine references. In the course of an evening, A Behanding in Spokane delivered cringes, chuckles, guffaws, and at least one “Ew.” And yes, it’s the perfect date for that romantic, hand-seeker in you. One hand up. Or, something.
Mark Waldstein as Abe and Sydney Andrews as Rachel in Undo at Annex (Photo: Ian Johnston)
There’s a lot to love about the simplicity and wit of Holly Arsenault’s Undo (at Annex Theatre through Feb 16; tickets). In an alternate world — where in order to divorce someone in the eyes of God, you must first go back through your wedding ceremony in reverse — Undo creates an incredibly believable universe that would make weddings a lot more entertaining, you know, if you were into schadenfreude.
Written by Holly Arsenault, Undo looks at Rachel and Joe’s unraveling as they attempt to answer the questions of their un-wedding — should I get stoned (yes), will we be penalized by God for using a different florist (maybe), am I wearing the same underwear I was three years ago (thank god, no). Filled with utter sadness at times coupled with dry and dark humor, the unspecial day features secrets, confessions, and a truly awkward (bordering on disturbing) sex scene in wedding clothes.
Rachel and Joe’s family is full of genuine awkward splendor: a jovial father figure who was recently widowed (Mark Waldstein), a by-the-book teenager wearing an incredibly short dress from the previous wedding (Samantha Leeds), the maid-of-honor sister in a ridiculous hat (Jillian Vashro) with her Irish lesbian lover (Amy Hill), the estranged aunt who lives in France (Marty Mukhalian), and of course, an overbearing Jewish mother (Barbara Lindsay). And you know a drunk bro and gal for good measure (Nick Edwards and Zoey Cane Belyea).
Under the direction of Erin Kraft, the production is at its best in showing the small, quiet moments between families. Particularly of note is Mark Waldstein as the sage, non-judgmental father of Joe (Ashton Hyman), who radiates calm as everyone else starts falling apart. Sydney Andrews’ Rachel is quiet and seemingly battling the entire time with a fight or flight response while barely raising her voice, rendering a truly stunning performance. And Samantha Leeds as the little sister Naomi is positively heart-wrenching, keeping everything in order so her sister can make peace with God.
If there were a downside to the production, it is that father and son (Waldstein and Hyman) come out looking downright saintly in comparison to mother and daughter (Lindsay and Andrews), who both hold dark secrets that destroy marriages. While the men get to be forgiving and loving, the flaws of the women are presented as damnable. Though there is heart in their flaws, the contrast of it being men and women seemed to highlight an underlying message I doubt Arsenault intended.
This flaw aside, Undo is an evening of blissful anguish watching two people sever ties to each other completely — a funny, dark look at how relationships end and all that goes into undoing what’s done.
I’m not one for musicals famous just because they made it on Broadway. I could live quite happily if I was assured I’d never again be subjected to music from Les Miserables, South Pacific, or Legally Blonde: The Musical. I do have a few exceptions to my general dislike, though, and one of them is Avenue Q (through December 16 at the Erickson; tickets).
When Avenue Q premiered in 2003 it was one of those musicals that nodded to the absurdity of the genre, simultaneously splashing around in the cheesy end of the pool and singing about screaming while banging. This is all tied together with an association with yours and my favorite instructional program, Sesame Street. Who didn’t want the simplicity of friendly puppets and a diverse neighborhood walking you through what the hell to do after graduating college?
But this Balagan Theatre production is showing its age–or I am. Is anyone really shocked to learn that people use the internet to watch porn? (More shocking were the updates to the song “Mixtape,” wherein the cast passes a CD and says, “Check the second disc,” instead of Side B.) These things were small but noticeable, especially with Hulu commercials reminding me that I can now bump my phone into someone else’s to exchange a sexually significant song.
Worse still was “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist” written in a time before it was understood that reverse racism doesn’t exist. The song was met with far fewer laughs than the ones I remember from my days listening to it with friends in college, though the cast performed it well. And of course, the Gary Coleman references fall even flatter to a generation that only vaguely remembers Diff’rent Strokes.
However, under the direction of Eric Ankrim the show still elicits joy in and uproarious laughter from those that allow it to overtake them. Ankrim makes several bold choices in his mounting of the silly production, the most notable of which is a cast of puppeteers dressed as the character they’re performing, rather than the traditional drab grays and blacks meant to focus attention on the puppets. Successful in some ways, I still found myself drawn to the faces of actors who were clearly better actors than they were puppeteers (but I don’t think the costumes had anything to do with that).
The most outstanding puppeteers were Brian Lange, who plays the loveable and straight Nicky, and Justin Huertas as the hopelessly closeted Rod. The Bert and Ernie of the bunch, they were at times the most compelling characters to watch. And though the role was small, Rob Scherzer as the porn addict, Trekkie Monster, had some of the best puppet-y movements of the evening.
Where the puppeting skills lacked, however, the singing never did. If I’m the only one who overly identifies with “There’s a Fine, Fine Line,” I’ll eat your cat (I don’t have a cat). Sung by the pitch-perfect Kirsten DeLohr Helland (Kate Monster), it’s one of the few songs in a show full of cheapish, but still funny laughs, that’s whole-heartedly vulnerable. (Although, from where I was sitting, Kate Monster didn’t look furry. Anyone who loves Grover like I do knows monsters are furry.) And Kate Jaeger’s Lucy the Slut is the best Jessica-Rabbit-esqe sultry I’ve heard in a long, long time.
Diana Huey as one of two walking ethnic punchlines held her own and brought some brilliance in acknowledging shit white people say in front of her, but she’s helped by having some depth written into her lines and a relationship that actually captivates. Rashawn Scott as Gary Coleman was not as lucky, but did what she could with the flattest role and at least got to belt it out with “You Can Be as Loud as the Hell You Want (When You’re Makin’ Love).”
Sidebar: Not too long ago, when I was a fresh-faced transplant from Tennessee I was introduced to Balagan Theatre with The Jammer, an amazing play about roller derby converting me to an instant fan. Then I saw their production of Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog at ACT Theatre, which was a highlight of my Joss Whedon fangirl existence. But then, something changed.
Some dark times settled over our theatre metropolis. Theatres were closing, missions were changing, and Balagan, “won” (is it really winning when the managing company doesn’t ask anyone else to compete for it?) the bid to take over the Erickson Theatre. Since then they’ve decided to traverse the Broadway road and become a theatre that seemingly prizes sell-out shows from some faraway place called New York over locally-grown material. Of course, since that’s where the arts money lives, who can blame them entirely?
Avenue Q was a fun night. The performances were tight, music was great, and I laughed a lot. But because it opened right after Annex Theatre closed two highly successful puppet musicals (one of which was exclusively about sex and was deliciously raunchy), one can’t help but compare how those new musicals were frankly more entertaining than one that has started collecting dust.
And because my relationship with Balagan started from a place of wonder at The Jammer, I have to ask, What happend to you Balagan? Are the days ofinnovative and original shows going to forever be tossed aside in favor of musicals that we already saw pass through here at the Paramount? Or, are you, like Princeton, just trying to find your purpose? I’ll forgive you for now, since you’ll be doing Hedwig next, but please think about it before next season so I don’t have to make a Gyote reference about how you were a theatre I used to know.
It takes bravado to name a show “The Most Innovative, Daring, and Original Piece of Dance/Performance You Will See This Decade.” Which may be the same amount of bravado it takes to use this title also as a tongue-in-cheek recognition of how originality in that sense doesn’t truly exist, but still make a case for why we continue to watch amazing new works.
The conceit is that current art is inspired by previous artists and movements and collaged together to make it uniquely part of the artist’s aesthetic. Amy O/tinyrage (through Oct 21 at Velocity Dance Center; tickets) uses this thesis for a dance/performance dedicated to all the artists who inspire her work. And not only is the idea wonderfully worked out, it totally works as performance.
Set up as a series of exhibits, Amy O explores how we interact with forms of movement including the YouTube videos and dance expressions that we don’t want to like but totally do anyway. Yes. Even booty dances and stripper poles influence how we approach dance/performance and art in general. Set up with three gorgeous screens for video projections and a small plexiglass stage with neon lights underneath, Amy O commands the space.
Particular exhibits of note included an interpretation of the choreography of Ciara’s “Ride” video–a video, Amy O admits afterwards through video projections, that simultaneously makes you want to make out with someone and rant about the stereotypical depictions of women. (She does both.)
The booty dance exhibit dominated the performance and was by far the most memorable. It features video of person-on-the-street interviews asking questions about how you view your butt: What do you think qualifies as a booty dance? Do you like the booty dance? Do you like butts? Is your butt useful, and so forth. Not only were these interviews hysterical–some ended in some fairly impressive demonstrations of booty rocking–but some of them were surprisingly touching, and some creepy. Turns out when you ask a bunch of people about their own and others’ butts they can’t stop talking.The variety of experience collaged into an riotous exhibit replete with a communal booty dance led by Amy O with a few presumed plants from the audience.
And then, there’s the pole dance. Okay, let me just say that drooling is unbecoming in an establishment like Velocity Dance Center. People look at you funny. They think you uncouth, uneducated. But damn. There is an art to pole dancing, especially in two-and-a-half-inch clear plastic stiletto heels that light up when you walk. (Just don’t leave your mouth open while appreciating this on its artistic merits. You’ll look a mess.)
In essence, where Amy O shines is in her use of what we commonly think of as either solely erotic or solely artistic. Amy O blurred this wonderfully with her exploration of some of the most sexual forms of dance and showing you how they are artforms.
Due in part to a year-long workshop process at Velocity, Amy O has created a potent piece, edited skillfully to lead us from one moment to the next building to the BIG ONE. The concluding exhibit dedicated to all the family, artists, collaborators that inspired her in her performance history including everyone from Janet Jackson, Pina Bausch, Martha Graham, and Pat Graney. Having witnessed the preceding building blocks, the final exhibit is truly extraordinary with a little bit of everything thrown in. Nods to hip hop, opera, pole dancing, booty dancing, ballet, and all in between, the final exhibit showcases Amy O’s incredible talent as a performer.
Not surprisingly, this show is sold out for its second weekend. However, if you get to the box office door by 7:30 p.m., you can see if you can snag some elusive walk-up seats.
Patti Murin as Glinda and Dee Roscioli as Elphaba in Wicked at the Paramount (Photo: Joan Marcus)
I first listened to the Wicked soundtrack in a Barnes & Noble music section one month before I graduated from high school. The musical will forever be associated with this time of my life and its general upheaval. But unlike the similar associations I have with Avenue Q (a show about the after-college lost year), for example, Wicked (a touring production performs at Paramount Theatre through Nov 17; tickets) has always felt much more juvenile–not in bad way.
With a book written by the woman who finally expressed the joys of watching your crush lean against something, My So-Called Life writer Winnie Holzman, and the man with as many hits (Godspell) as misses (Working), Stephen Schwartz, the musical has always enjoyed huge success. By and large, this can be attributed to the subject matter: Feeling like an outsider and trying to make friends is a fairly universal experience, and kid-friendly to boot. But as much as Wicked was trumpeted in its time as being a “brave new musical,” it never trod new ground.
The story of Wicked, which I feel silly for laying out since it’s been relayed to me even by people who don’t go to theatre or know musicals, is the behind-the-scenes look at the Wicked Witch of the West. Think VH1 Before They Were Stars, only without a confessional. It follows the sisterhood forged between Glinda the Good Witch (here, Patti Murin) and Elphaba (Dee Roscioli) at college and carrying through their careers as perceived good- and evil-doers, respectively.
This is all tied together neatly with a love interest in the misquoting-Socrates and general airhead, pretty boy Fiyero (Cliffton Hall). Fiyero gets it on with both Glinda and Elphaba, cheapening their story by turning their quest to define-and-do-good storyline into a “You stole my boyfriend!” catfight.
What’s more compelling than the Fiyero love interest is the clear attraction the two powerhouses have for one another (see photo above before you tell me I see lesbian drama in everything). Perhaps that’s just because their chemistry together is excellent (Murin and Roscioli were great at keeping my hope alive), or because the first act sounds like lesbian pulp fiction (“They thought they hated each other, but what brewed between was a bewitching attraction they could not begin to contain!”). Or, maybe because Fiyero is barely in the damn thing. Or, because in their many duets the two lead actors stand so close for so long in the “hit ‘em or kiss ‘em” stance that you’re convinced it ends in one of them grabbing the other’s face and laying on a big wet one. (Huge let-down ensued when they didn’t.)
I know. I know. It’s my fantasy and no one else sees it, but come on. “You’ll be with me like a handprint on my heart?” Serious dyke drama.
But I digress. If there’s a negative for veteran watchers, it’s that the show really hasn’t changed much in the near decade it’s been alive. They are still using the beautiful set from Eugene Lee and the ridiculously colorful costumes of Hilferty (both designs won Tonys and with good reason). But the actors sing and dance, too, and that choreography and staging hasn’t changed, either; in this, the tour feels like a watered-down version of what Chenoweth and Menzel did a decade ago.
That said, Murin and Roscioli own the show. Murin’s timing as the bubbly Glinda always entertains, and her growth from simpleton airhead with no other cares but herself into a public figure who cares about Oz and her only true friend is rendered beautifully. Roscioli’s dry and witty Elphaba contrasts wonderfully. The other performers are amazing in their own right (this ensemble is terrific, not one sour note), but it is a story about the two leads’ friendship and no one else can compete with their skills. Hoo boy. They have some pipes.
Wicked (by design) doesn’t give much opportunity for anyone else to shine, comparatively. The Wizard, first performed by the amazing Joel Gray, is taken up by Tom McGowan. Unfortunately for Tom, all I could think was, “That’s the camp counselor from Heavyweights,” every time he came on stage. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. He was decent, though not much of a singer and his big reveal in the show did not have much emotional resonance. to be fair, that’s as much a problem with the script as with any actor forced to reprise “Sentimental Man” with a wavering voice.
And, no, Cliffton Hall as Fiyero did not really do much for me. Though his voice was perfect, I did not feel that he was actually connecting with the two women in question. I just don’t think the chemistry was there. But the mother behind me did sigh deeply when Fiyero and Elphaba finished their OMG-Is-This-Song-Still-Happening duet. So maybe I just have no heart.
Also, my favorite song, “No Good Deed,” sadly fell a little flat, though not because Roscioli didn’t hit every note perfectly–instead, because she did. This song is the best opportunity to showcase the pipes and belting skills of Elphaba, and is fraught with emotional weight and intensity. But Roscioli opting to make every note perfect, instead of getting into the guttural determination and fear that comes with the song made it forgettable.
This is the third time Wicked has come to the Paramount since 2006. In fact, it’s come every three years. My biggest question going into it was, who hasn’t seen this thing, yet?
Ask a silly question, I guess. I ran into a woman in the lounge who just kept repeating, “I’m so excited. I’ve never seen it before.” And then the woman behind me in the audience with her eight-year-old boy (who kept saying really hysterical things throughout the production) said at intermission that it was also their first time. And my companion had never seen it (and never seen Wizard of Oz, which is it’s own mystery).
Why does Wicked continue to sell out houses? My best guess is that it’s a kid’s show. There’s no troubling, deeper meaning. The political unrest displayed throughout, though tongue-in-cheek, is kept from the forefront. How we categorize and demonize the “other” is similarly touched on, but not fully explored. The traumatizing disappearance of Dr. Dillamond is erased by his return, and the significance of losing his voice and the ability to speak is completely glossed over by ridiculous nothingness.
Wicked dwells in that place where all we’re really thinking about is how dishy our girlfriend is, or “I can’t believe she just said that to me! I thought we friends!” There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, except when it prevents new musicals from growing up. You can talk about serious issue with songs, but you have to stop shoehorning in the same old love stories first.
When I heard about upstart crow collective’s entirely female Titus Andronicus (at Seattle’s U’s Lee Center through October 7; tickets), my stomach gleefully lurched, and I purchased away with a bloody, macabre song in my heart. All women? Are you serious? This hardly ever happens! (I may have squealed.)
Shakespeare often underserves contemporary female actors, with lackluster roles or only two women in a twenty-person cast. Seeing talented female actors playing bit parts as handmaids, fairies, or even the larger, yet rarely deep characters gets old and generally inspires rants about failures of creativity. Tthere are exceptions, of course, but only exceptions–not rules.)
(Why, in 2012, with everything else in play, are we putting on Shakespeare the way he gender-assigned it? It makes no sense, so I have to try to play the “Because” game to explain it. Romeo’s best friend can’t be a chick because…dudes aren’t friends with girls? An entirely genderbent play has to stay the way it was originally designated because…if we have a woman outside the designated cross-dressing it loses all meaning? Fools are strictly males because…they make dick jokes? Did I get any of them right? I digress.)
Having read Titus Andronicus long ago in some darkened high school lit class, I vaguely remembered it involved a lot of blood, rape, dismemberment, and eating people. Since I’ve been worried about the zombie apocalypse, it didn’t seem like too much of a stretch in my 2012 doom-countdown clock that an all-female Titus might be one of the four Horsemen, but in Goth garb, tattoos, and piercings. (Oh yes, it’s hot.)
Let me just throw out some names that cinched the deal for me: Rhonda J. Soikowski, Peggy Gannon, and Tracy Hyland. Amy Thone is Titus. Oh. Wait. Go back. Amy Thone is Titus. Holy crap.
So, aside from clearly pandering to me and my uncontrollable need to watch talented women perform Shakespearean characters outside of the usual fluff of Nurse and Peaseblossom, the production is actually quite good, though bumpy in a few places. Set in the round (with a rather lovely design by Carol Wolfe Clay), I was struck by the altars lining the walls. There were white urns smeared with blood behind me, and a large bloody table with a dropcloth in front. I was surrounded on both sides by overhanging black staircases.
Under the direction of Rosa Joshi, the immediate contrast between Soikowski’s Bassianus and Kelly Kitchen’s Saturninus sets up the premise of a kingdom torn between two different brothers for the throne–one warm and smiling and one severe. Further, the loving gestures shown in the small and quick moments between Bassianus and his love Lavinia (Brenda Joyner) make you acutely aware as cute and happy as they are, it cannot end well. Meanwhile, the beautifully nasty portrayal of the two brothers from the Goth side of things (Gannon and Sarah Harlett) will ruin your faith in humanity especially during the battery of Lavinia.
Nike Imoru shines as the evil-at-heart Aaron, manipulating any and all to gain power. Strangely enough, I did not question this fact even when he looked on his baby. No softness came through, per se, but the subtle shift into being evil for evil’s sake and suddenly having progeny to provide purpose was quite captivating.
Thone balanced Titus’ love of his children, desire to be left to aging with grace, and the possibility of insanity with clear contrasts driving the play forcefully home. The decision to sever his hand juxtaposed with his inability to comfort a tongue-less, handless, and utterly destroyed Lavinia is perhaps the best example of Thone’s skill.
I had hoped this production would be spotless, but not all is shiny. At times the production became spotty and unclear in its tone. When the deceased cast comes back to set the table for the cannibalistic dinner, I felt like I was watching another play. Though it was darkly humorous and had me giggling, the play shifted from dark deeds by dark men to sweet revenge with a camp twist. And though I liked this short transition for its macabre glee, the turn from intense and serious violence to farce was a little jarring.
Complicating the issue was how the production dealt with blood. They chose to show the puppet strings of theatrical blood effects. We see the syringe that shoots blood from a knife; we see blood poured on a chest in a ritualized manner after the character dies. It made the would-be mess tidy, but also stylized and confused. While some moments came off wonderfully lusty in the pouring of blood, others were almost comical. Further, a few of the asides seemed to be lit as if the characters were B-movie villains delivering their monologues about orchestrating the invasion of earth. Not just lit that way, I should say, but also delivered in some instances as if they were expected to end them with a “Muahahahaha.”
Added together, these choices made me wonder: Is it camp? Tongue-in-cheek? Completely serious? I couldn’t be sure. Of course, the play does lend itself to over-the-top dramatics by the end. Having endured so much death, blood, and abuse, is there anything to do but laugh? But in this instance, it did not necessarily feel earned, instead broadcasting the ridiculousness of the circumstances and cheapening an otherwise emotionally captivating production.
Aside from that, there was an overriding question I couldn’t help but ask: When are they women playing men, and when are they performing as women in a male part? I enjoyed exploring this question through the variety of performance and honestly want to see it again, if no other reason than to document the play for its queer and gender theory lens. There were actors who performed as women throughout (Kitchens, Tracy Hyland). There were actors performing men without the seams of femininity at all (Gannon, Imoru, Soikowski, and Harlett). And then there was Thone, who seemed to shift between mother and father, both male and female.
Rather than taking me out of the performance, I felt that the question added to how we approach the text and story. When is Titus the man actually a mother? How is Aaron’s self-proclaimed evil side squelched with a softer touch when a son is born to him? And the larger question of why these choices are categorized in clearly imperfect gendered binaries. Why does it hurt more that this Titus doesn’t know how to comfort his daughter? I don’t know. But it does.
