The fringe transformed

Kiki Samko, Michael Caminiti, Michael Underhill, Luke Murtha and Elizabeth Battey in Polaroid Stories.

Sorry for much of the radio silence of late - and my sincere thanks to the six hundred dedicated souls who have been checking the blog faithfully, every day, despite my absence. I appreciate your loyalty, and will be blogging more regularly!

First up is a remarkable production of Naomi Iizuka's Polaroid Stories, which plays through this weekend at the BCA Black Box.  It's a joint production of three fringe mainstays - Happy Medium Theatre, Boston Actors Theater, and Heart & Dagger - though it feels largely like a Heart and Dagger show, frankly, probably because it has been directed by HD's artistic core, Joey Pelletier and Elise Weiner Wulff, and also because its dark mix of sex, drugs and glamour/squalor has long been the signature of H&D.  As I'm a friendly acquaintance of Joey Pelletier's, I've seen quite a few H&D shows, and I'd say that Polaroid Stories may prove a watershed for them - it's certainly the first time their vision has cohered in so strong and subtle a way.

Part of this success is attributable to the script, which is both more polished and more accessible than some recent Heart & Dagger fare; Iizuka is particularly successful at conjuring in her dialogue the cadences of life on the street, where all her young characters live, almost love, and sometimes die (she drew on interviews with Minneapolis runaways for inspiration).  The playwright's big conceptual gambit, however - she attempts to limn these broken lives through the lens of Ovid's Metamorphoses - slowly proves less convincing, even if at first it seems intriguing and apt; after all, Ovid's odes to change and transformation definitely have their parallels in the rootless environment of the street, where nothing is permanent or dependable.


But gradually it becomes apparent that while the Metamorphoses are all about passion in its many modes, Polaroid Stories is usually about the lack thereof.  In short, Ovid's mythological characters always connect - their obsessions drive them to their destinies - but Iizuka's almost never do; indeed, the story she tells over and over is of love and connection thwarted by ennui and addiction (a passion of its own, to be sure, but one which the playwright never dares to explore, even though she posits a pusher called "D" - for Dionysos? Dis? - as the king of her shady underworld).  And as the playwright is always pulling her dramatic punches, her Polaroids never quite come into focus, and her characters never actually metamorphose into anything; instead they seem suspended beneath a grimly mournful umbrella that (harsh as this may sound) is fundamentally sentimental.  Thus well before it's over we can feel the narrative gears of Polaroid Stories beginning to grind . . .

Luke Murtha and Melissa DeJesus in Polaroid Stories.

Still, this remains the strongest production of this provocative play we're likely to see, and casting directors in particular will want to catch the final performances, if only to pick out the next round of up-and-comers on the local scene.  I've often sung the praises of several of them already - so I wasn't too surprised that after  stumbling at Stoneham recently, Michael Underhill was back in top form as Narcissus (who in a witty stroke has his name tattooed across his pecs, in Greek, and backwards), while the hunky Jesse Wood exuded a low-key mix of sexual confidence and experience as "G" (which I really hope is not meant as shorthand for "God").

But what was most striking about this production was how Pelletier and Wulff had drawn the best performances I've yet seen from almost all their usual players - Luke Murtha, for instance. made a charmingly spontaneous Orpheus (his ad-libbed love songs are hilarious and sweet), and the often too-forceful Kiki Samko seemed to have learned how to keep a fund of tragic feeling in reserve as a fierce, damaged Persephone.  Meanwhile newcomer Melissa DeJesus (above left, with Murtha) made an appealing, if not quite intriguing, Eurydice, and there was subtle work on tap from Danielle Leeber Lucas, Elizabeth Battey, Mikey DiLoreto, Michael Caminiti, Amy Meyer, Robyn Linden, Denise Drago, Lauren Elias, Nicole Howard, Kate Shanahan, and Sarah Sixt.

What's more, director/choreographer Wulff deployed the cast in consistently creative and apt ways through the void of the Black Box Theatre (aided by evocative, flexible lighting from Michael Clark Wonson).  If I'd loved the script, I'd call this a triumph; as it is, it's an impressive demonstration of just how high the Boston fringe can fly.  Through Saturday only.

Wild, but broken, Dreams

Denise Drago makes her move on Will Schuller in Your Wildest Dreams

Last weekend I checked out one of the final performances of my buddy Joey Pelletier's play Your Wildest Dreams, produced by Heart & Dagger Productions at the Boston Playwrights' Theatre.

Joey is a kind of playwriting dynamo - Heart & Dagger just put up another one of his scripts only a few weeks ago - and he has an endearingly gonzo attitude when it comes to his craft.  Indeed, he tosses off plays as if they were songs: Joey goes for it, gets it up there, and only then scans the fourth wall to see what (if anything) has stuck.

And not only is speed everything for Joey and Heart & Dagger, but experimentation is also a necessity.  So a typical Pelletier play is studded with choreography and stage pictures - devised by frequent collaborator Danielle Leeber Lucas - that sometimes patch holes in the plot, sometimes extend the action in a mode that's vaguely cinematic, or sometimes simply attempt to "get abstract."  Now this kind of thing can often be irritating, but it never is at Heart & Dagger somehow, because the troupe is never pretentious; nevertheless, their shows can be - well, a bit confusing.

And Your Wildest Dreams, in fact, was like a short course in the company's strengths and gaps.  The concept of the show was intriguing, and conceptually ambitious: Dreams was composed entirely of dreams, as experienced by eight different characters, most of whom seemed linked in a complicated set of relationships in the waking world, but who in their wildest dreams operated in very different, at times even fantastical, roles.

But perhaps the production's ambitions were almost too wild.  The key to conveying dream logic as dramatic action is to build in framing that explains the rules of said dreams (hence all that explicit exposition in Inception, which despite its confounding contradictions, operated by a simple set of conventions).  But Joey never clearly does this, so we're on our own throughout his various episodes, which he tries to structure as a web of interconnected fantasies and a functioning "queer vampire thriller," to boot.  This is rather a tall order - especially given the fact that the script juggles eight major characters, all of whom are sometimes seemingly their "real" selves, and sometimes their "fantasy" selves (i.e., as they might figure in someone else's dreams).

Oh, well.  I have to admit that half the time I was slightly lost, but the show was still punchy fun, off and on, and Lucas's choreography seemed better integrated into the storyline (and more clearly interpretible) than usual.  Slinky Denise Drago had the most impact as a seductive vampire (above), but Jenny Reagan, Amy Meyer and Kendall Aiguier also made positive impressions (in general the women seemed to fare better here than the men).  Sets and lighting were minimal, but at least the sound track was solid - Joey's got good taste in club music, and many episodes were at their best when channeling (however vaguely) the menace that floats just beneath the come-on of so many club tracks.  In the end, Your Wildest Dreams felt like a promising first draft - although it will take real discipline (and time and focus) to make it the stuff that dreams are made on.

Getting beyond narcissism at Heart and Dagger

It looks like more fun than it really is.

After enduring Next to Narcissism - oops, I meant Next to Normal! - at SpeakEasy Stage, I was in the mood (altered or otherwise) for a good production of Crave, playwright Sarah Kane's primal scream from the bottom of the well of her notorious psychological torment (the playwright committed suicide after scratching out only a handful of ever-more-disturbing plays). I admit Crave is definitely not a good time - but it's authentic; you can hear in it the voice of a soul rather than a shill; unlike Next to Normal, it's not unhappy-housewife bait, much less some shrink-wrapped tablet of theatrical psychopharmacology.  Crave is for those who crave, as they say, "the real thing."

And I got at least a taste of it, if not a full dose, in this production from Heart and Dagger, which I caught at the end of its run last weekend.  It was paired with a new work, Beyond the Light, by an old buddy of mine, Joey Pelletier; which aimed to, as H&D's web site puts it, "crash the party with abstract dance theater."  Hmmm.  "Abstract dance theater." Okay, I kind of get what Joey and H&D are all about - if Oberon wasn't run by evil people, it would be a lot like Heart & Dagger - but I'm not sure I get what they mean (or rather I'm not sure that they get what they mean) by "abstract dance theater."  In practice, at least in Beyond the Light, this seemed to add up to - "Some scenes are going to be dialogue-based, and others are going to be dance-based, and don't ask us why, okay?"

And actually, that's mostly okay - I mean, I never argue with young people in their underwear, and if Heart and Dagger sounds kind of pretentious, trust me, somehow they're really not.  And I do want to say to all the Hearts and Daggers - you definitely look super sexy and dangerous, and I'm totally jealous!!  Whether or not Beyond the Light truly limned the depths of its topic - a junkie/hustler's near-death experience (actually, maybe he died, I'm not completely sure) . . . well, is that really so important, all things considered?  Joey - who wrote as well as directed - has a talent for dialogue (I've seen his other work); and judging from this, he has some choreographic chops, too.  The chief problem with Beyond, it seemed, was that its various bits and pieces didn't seem to hang together, and sometimes H&D's sense of sexual camp undermined the supposed "edge" of the material.  Another problem loomed in the production's lead; hunky Jesse Wood is certainly easy on the eyes, and definitely has some talent - but he only lights up when he's got frisky physical business to execute; he's obviously a happy, healthy dude goofing around with his weird friends in their fishnets rather than some junkie circling the drain.

Oh, well.  Crave at first looked as if it might prove more coherent - director Melanie Garber had a few staging tricks up her sleeve which helped tie together the play's fractured narrative (like its author's psyche, the very text of Crave is shattered into shards).  Chief among these was the clever gambit by which the script's various "voices" tore bandages off a central figure (an appropriately tormented Abigal Matzeder), exposing more and more psychological "nakedness" as the play progressed.  But alas, the success of Crave depends on capturing a certain psychological tone - a mix of yearning and self-disgust, perhaps even self-hatred - that's all but unique in dramatic literature; the "protagonist" of Crave is so far gone from mistreatment and insecurity that she has learned to crave even abuse (at least it's human contact).  And I'm afraid of Garber's quartet of performers, only Michael Underhill was able to maintain this disturbing emotional valence.  Mr. Underhill was last seen cavorting convincingly in Humpty Dumpty at Imaginary Beasts; that kind of range leaves the inevitable impression that he is one of the young actors to watch on Boston's fringe.

Heart and Dagger takes a stab at gay innocence

This isn't a picture, actually, of MilkMilkLemonade - but it is of Heart and Dagger, and it's very them!

When my old buddy Joey Pelletier asked me to see his current show, MilkMilkLemonade (it closes tonight at the Factory Theatre, so hurry), my first reaction was "But isn't that by Josh Conkel?  And am I not filled with hatred for Josh Conkel - as I am for his entire generation???"

Or so Miss Conkel herself once told me in an email or comment (I forget which).  Indeed, Joey mentioned that the oh-so-sensitive playwright had emailed him to say something like, "Listen, I'm really sweet and innocent and all, but I have to mention that there is this scary old queen in Boston named Thomas Garvey who thinks he's a critic - which is totally pathetic, frankly, everybody says so! - and if I were you I would think twice about inviting him to the show.  I mean that in a nice way, of course."

Yeah, we both had a good laugh about that.  I mean, it may have been good advice, but hey - Joey needed some publicity, know what I'm saying?  Desperate times, desperate measures, etc., which means even bitter old queens like me get in free!  Joey's outfit, Heart and Dagger Productions, is plenty funny and smart, but I'm afraid they work in a sharp, slutty mode - think of them as a mixed-gender Gold Dust Orphans - that's a little too close to Ryan Landry's niche.  And Ryan Landry is already in that niche, isn't he.  So no reviews for Heart and Dagger!

Oh, well - such are the challenges facing a theatrical start-up these days.  Theatre scene - growing; critical scene - shrinking.  It's an old story, and a really boring one, so back to MilkMilkLemonade . . .

Now I am going to try to be as nice as possible about this totally awesome play by Mr. Joshua Conkel (which draws its name from a certain familiar schoolyard rhyme).  I will also attempt to ignore my bitter loathing of his entire generation.  Scout's honor.  So here goes nothing.

MilkMilkLemonade is not too long.  And it has some very funny lines.  And it made me want to run out and chow down on a factory-farmed steak as soon as possible.

Just kidding about that last one, kids!  I did realize, as I watched the sweet but kind of runny MilkMilkLemonade pour forth, that I was watching a show by and for The Young Peoples, and so I had to adjust my dusty old dried-up critical standards.  It's really a long-form skit rather than an actual play, for instance, but actual plays are so over, know what I'm saying?  I mean everybody under thirty has ADD, you can't expect them to sit still for two whole hours and track a - what do you call it? I forget - you know, that thing that plays have - oh, right a theme, a theme, that's it!  (Somebody tweeted me that, which is just one reason why the Internet is so awesome.)

So MML's lack of development is actually a good thing for The Young Peoples.  As are its many digressions into pop songs and dance routines (which are pretty cleverly rendered here).  Indeed, MML sometimes plays like a scarily-accurate X-ray of a certain demographic (even down to the 80's reruns its targeted viewers probably remember).  But I forgot - these are all good things!!!

To be fair, there is a plot - kind of.  Little Emory is a gay eight-year old (that would be Joey) who lives on a chicken farm with his loving but grimly bloodthirsty Nanna (Mikey DiLoreto, who renders Nana's apparent trachial cancer with disgusting authority).  Emory is so sweet that not only is he a gay power bottom, he's also a vegan - and his idea of a good time is pretending to be a boneless chicken breast while people spray him with "moisture."  (Don't laugh, this would pass as unremarkable in certain circles.)  Two conflicts are troubling poor Emory's rich fantasy life, however.  His best friend, the enormous chicken Linda (who herself fantasizes that she's Andrew Dice Clay - helped by a truly hilarious coiff, Erin Rae Zalaski manages to pull this off), is scheduled to be "processed" by Nana sometime soon.  And local bully Elliott (a highly convincing Melanie Garber, even when she's not sporting a penis), keeps dropping by - either to punch someone, set something on fire, or play doctor with Emory.  Hmmm . . .

As a kind of map of tremulous gay-teen fantasy life, I suppose this serves well enough - the trouble is it plays out with utter predictability.  Still, every now and then Conkel's instincts nudge him toward more intriguing territory than Tennessee Williams parodies and Gong Show auditions.  When Linda encounters a nasty little spider with "attitude" (a hilarious Elise Weiner Wulff), for instance, we wonder whether Mr. Conkel might suddenly be up for delivering, via her hearty carnivorousness, a few ripostes to the weepy, coddled mindset of his principals.  But no such luck.  Oops, sorry - I mean that's a good thing!

Anyway, it's over pretty fast, and there are quite a few good lines (which I won't spoil by repeating).  There is also a funny modern-dance evocation of the chicken processor in which poor Linda is eventually chopped to bits. And if you haven't noticed, I was impressed by everybody in the cast, including Joey, who's maybe a bit too sexy and knowing to embody Emory's innocence, but who certainly knows his way around a Blanche DuBois routine.

I was also impressed with Barbara DiGirolamo's quick-witted direction and the general look and feel of the show - although I did wonder whether the design team hadn't missed something of the perversely innocent Mister-Roger's-Neighborhood feel that I imagine Conkel had in mind; Heart and Dagger's take on a barnyard was somehow tilted a bit toward the burlesque.  Likewise  Elise Weiner Wulff's turns as the show's narrator (the "Lady in a Leotard") should probably lean more toward Shari Lewis (and her translations of Linda's grackel need some sort of gentle twist). Come to think of it, even Emory's Barbie doll looked a little too white-trash trampy.  But then again, that was probably a good thing.

"Interview" leaves open questions

Controversy has an interesting way of melting into thin air sometimes. It's hard for contemporary audiences to imagine, for instance, why The Playboy of the Western World once provoked riots in Dublin. And something of the same aura of vanished cultural edge now surrounds Jean-Claude van Itallie's "Interview" (at left), which, as part of his trilogy of one-acts, American Hurrah, appeared to be storming some sort of barricade upon its premiere back in the 60's. Or maybe it just seemed that way because so many provocateurs were involved with the production: Joseph Chaikin, Robert Wilson, Alvin Epstein, and even James Coco and Al Pacino crossed paths with American Hurrah at one point or other.

But stripped of that incendiary mix of artists, and pulled from its roiling original milieu, "Interview" tends to look a bit thin; these days it plays more like a caustic theatre game than any kind of call to arms. Or at least that's how it feels in its new production by Heart and Dagger Productions, which closes this weekend at the BCA.

Full disclosure: I'm a friend of Joey Pelletier, a founding force of Heart and Dagger, director of "Interview," and a kind of floating player in the local fringe for some time now; I even cast him in my ill-starred production of Blowing Whistles for Zeitgeist Stage a few years back. Joey was a pleasure to work with then, and we've kept up with each other over the years - hey, he took his clothes off for my show, I owe him! And it's been easy duty, frankly, since he's a smart, talented, and sardonic free spirit (the hilarious title of his last effort alone, "Into the Fens," tells you as much).

But I don't think he has quite triumphed over the datedness of "Interview," which has been largely forgotten because - well, because it's just not as dramatically arresting as similar works of the period by Albee, Pinter or Ionesco. These days, it feels rather like an intriguing sketch of ideas that were in the air at the time, but were better developed by greater talents.

Which doesn't mean it's a drag, particularly not in Joey's lively, somewhat noisy version, which has been well-choreographed by Elise Weinter Wulff, and cast with a number of rising fringe talents. The script opens with a series of job interviews set in some Theatre-of-the-Absurd office where masked interviewers interrogate hapless applicants with intrusive questions, in which issues of dignity and identity seem to be increasingly at stake. It then morphs into a larger form of cultural interlocution: a woman desperately asks for directions on a chaotic city street; a man seeks solace from his psychiatrist; one lonely soul even begs for forgiveness for being alive. Beneath the relentless questioning, we begin to feel a menacing kind of void begin to open (when a woman explains that she's late to a party because she saw someone killed, there's a hint that she might be the dead girl in question). By the end of the piece, a kind of low-grade paranoia has taken hold of "society," and the actors march off in fascistic lockstep - as one low voice cries for help.

But it's this deeper sense of destabilization that the Heart and Dagger production pretty much misses; this version is marked by a smart, cynical energy that's a little too knowing and not nearly frightened enough.  Still, there are solid turns from many in the cast; Kiki Samko telegraphs a bit, but is always a lively presence, and there are subtly inflected performances from Amy Meyer, Tommy O'Malley, and Erin Rae Zalaski.  Fringe regular Mikey DiLoreto likewise entertains with his familiar sweet-but-strange enthusiasm.  Together these talents have devised a diverting introduction to van Itallie's text, but hardly a full exploration of it.