“Blind Cinema” – Pittsburgh Festival of Firsts (FoF)

Dear Reader, over the next 6 weeks or so I’m going to be writing about the Pittsburgh Festival of Firsts (FoF) in addition to the fall season of plays at our local theaters. If you don’t know what the Festival of Firsts is, well, all I can say is: get your head out from under that rock, high thee over to the Cultural Trust website, and make plans to see some of the performance and visual art that will have its World, US, or regional premiere right here in the ‘Burgh! You don’t want to be one of those people who read my post and think to yourself, “Dang, I can’t believe I missed that!” Most of the artists will only be here for a very, very short window, so by the time you read about it here they will likely be gone, and you will be kicking yourself. Seriously, don’t miss out – the last two Festivals were paradigm-shifting, game-changing, life-altering, and just plain made those of us who attended them glad to be alive.

Okay, done shilling for the Cultural Trust. On to Blind Cinema –

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Photo by Kitoko Chargois on behalf of the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust.

I’m not quite sure what to call Belgian film/media/performance artist Britt Hatzius’s Blind Cinema: it’s a hybrid of film and spoken word “performance” that defies easy categorization. It’s certainly an experience, and an unusual one at that. Here’s what happens: you are handed a blindfold as you enter the cinema and are then shown to a seat. Behind you is an empty row. A film begins – it’s a film of an animated white dot on a black background. The dot descends from the top of the screen and wanders around the frame, and then expands to fill the entire screen with bright white light. At that point, you are instructed to put on the blindfold. You hear shuffling around and behind you, and soon the (nine- to eleven-year-old) child who takes a seat behind you places a tube with two cones attached at your shoulder – one cone for you, and one cone for your adult neighbor. You hold the cone to your ear. The child introduces herself: “Hi, my name is ______ and I’m going to be narrating the film for you.” And then she starts to whisper in the tube, describing a film that she is seeing for the first time. About a third of the way through, there’s a pause, and suddenly, surprisingly, a new voice begins to whisper in the tube. And then, after another bit of time, that voice stops, there’s a pause, and a third whisperer takes over describing what’s on the screen. The film ends, the children quietly leave their seats, and when you finally remove your blindfold, the collective group of kids is standing in front of the screen.

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Photo by Kitoko Chargois on behalf of the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust.

The film they describe seems complicated, with many layers of narration and/or reality. From what I could gather, there’s a room, and a child in the room who is looking at books, and the film shows what is in the books. There’s also a projector and a screen in the room, and the child turns on the projector and watches a film-within-the-film that features a large office building with a lot of windows. Within that film, as far as I could make out (and as much as I can now remember) there is a sequence in which someone draws a scene that the characters in the film-within-the-film can enter. The action seems to bounce back and forth between the room with the child, and the world of the film-within-the-film, and the animated/drawn sequences within that world. Something happens that involves a lot of flashes of light, and at one point the room is reduced to rubble. There is a flashlight that turns into a white dot searching across the screen – a clue that the one bit of film we saw before we put on our blindfolds was a scene, somehow, from the film the children get to watch – and there is also an egg, which the child shells and eats, and later in the film the egg grows large and somehow floats up in the sky and joins the stars.

In the moment, I found it surprisingly difficult to visualize what was being described to me, particularly because none of my whisperers gave any clue as to the style or genre of the film they were watching. Although the first scene we watched was clearly animation, for reasons I can’t explain my brain defaulted to imagining that the film was live action, with real actors, and as a result, when my whisperer started to describe some of the more “unreal” events – such as the sequence in which a door was drawn inside a window and a person stepped through that door – I found it difficult to slot what I was being told into the schema my brain had already constructed. At times I even stopped trying to get myself to form pictures in my mind of what the whisperer was describing, often because I couldn’t figure out how to make the transition from the picture I already had in my head to the image that was being described. Nevertheless – and even though, days later, my memory of the narration has become a little hazy – “images” from this film that I never saw continue, improbably, to bubble up in my visual imagination. The sensation is odd, more like remembering a dream on which you have a tenuous hold than recalling a real-life experience: an egg being cracked on top of the head of a young boy with dark curly hair; stars that look like x’s with a square in the middle; a set of windows with a door drawn in the middle; a shelf with three books, one red and one green (there was a third color, but I forget); a boy standing on the books so that he can reach the projector; fireworks; a huge pile of eggshells on the floor.

Blind Cinema is disorienting in the best and most literal sense of that word: it shifts your orientation, not only because you can’t see what is being described, or because you are dependent on both the observational and descriptive powers of a young person who may or may not be able to fully narrate what she or he is seeing, but also because your experience of time is mediated and shaped by a child’s moment to moment reaction to what is happening in the film. Some of the best moments of Blind Cinema, for me, were when my whisperer was taken by surprise, or started editorializing. At one point the first whisperer exclaimed, in excitement and shock, “Oh! Oh! He’s putting the egg on his head!” and then calmed down – “oh, good, oh, okay, it’s cooked, that’s okay.” At another point, the second child commented, “So now he’s going into the door that was drawed, or drawn, or drewed…I don’t know which, I’m not very good at that kind of grammar, but anyway – he goes through the door of the drawing…”; and later, he cried out, “Oh, ow! Okay, there are a lot of really bright flashing lights, it hurts my eyes, ow!” followed by a long pause, during which I imagined that he must have closed his eyes for a bit, too. After that, there was a poignant moment of editorializing: “Oh, this is so sad. Oh, no. Oh….now it’s back at the room, but it’s all rubble. Oh.”

Such moments didn’t necessarily help me visualize what was on the screen, but they gave me a far more potent emotional and psychological experience than I expect watching the film ever could. For childhood is a lost country; we all experienced it, but most of us can’t truly remember what it was like to think and feel and perceive as a young child. Yet at those points in the narration when the child-whisperers reacted spontaneously to film’s odd surprises, it felt as if a tiny portal of access to that lost country had opened up again.

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The narrator-whisperers. Photo by Kitoko Chargois on behalf of the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust.

 

Next up: Cirque Eloize Hotel (FoF) at the Benedum. And this weekend, barebones productions opens Lobby Hero at their space in Braddock. Those of you with kids might want to make plans to take them to see Gab Squad (FoF), which opens next Wednesday.

“The Revolutionists” at City Theatre

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The characters in Lauren Gunderson’s 2016 play The Revolutionists are all fascinating, powerful women from the history of the French Revolution: playwright Olympe de Gouges (Daina Michelle Griffith), an early feminist who authored the “Declaration of the Rights of Women,” Charlotte Corday (Moira Quigley), the Girondiste who murdered the radical journalist Jean-Paul Marat in his bathtub; Marie Antoinette (Drew Leigh Williams), the recently deposed Queen of France; and “La Marianne” – not really a historical figure, but a symbol of the revolution, here fleshed out as the fictional Marianne Angelle, a Caribbean freedom fighter (Shamika Cotton). These four figures would likely never have come together in history (they shared neither political orientation nor class/social status), but in Gunderson’s imagining they have something in common – they are all women whose stories have been wrested from them by history, and who, each in their own right, exhibited a heroism overlooked or underrecognized by the historical record.

It’s up to Olympe de Gouges to write them back into history, or at least that seems to be the driving force behind the play’s action. De Gouges is trying to write a play – perhaps, even, the play we are watching – but both the form and content elude her, until Marianne, Charlotte, and Marie invade her space and demand her help, because “everyone needs a writer for some purpose.” The interactions between the four women provide opportunity for illumination into what they have in common (motherhood, children, a proto-feminist consciousness, a desire to have their perspective heard and recognized) and also into the ways their legacies have been erased or distorted.

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L to R: Moira Quigley, Daina Michelle Griffith, Drew Leigh Williams, Shamika Cotton. Photo courtesy of City Theatre.

Dear Reader, I wanted to like this play and production much more than I did. I’m always up for a good revisionist view of history – especially a feminist one! – and any production that prominently features not only an all-female creative team, but a racially diverse one at that, already has me in its palm. But alas, I found myself unable to board its train, primarily because the play seems unable to decide, from among the many things it touches upon, what it really wants to be about. The closest I could come to pinpointing an “aboutness” to this play was that it seeks to spin out the ways in which the social and political differences between these four figures ought to have been overshadowed by their shared oppression as women – that their sororité could or should have eclipsed all other divisions between them. But otherwise we don’t get much revision of history here, at least not in any detailed or rich sense. Instead, much of the play’s energy is devoted to self-referential reflections on the job of the playwright to write these women back into history, which makes for a kind of clever joke the first few times we hear it, but soon grows tiresome and overdone. By the end of the play, the idea that it’s up to de Gouges to “write their story” has been repeated so many times that you may find yourself, as I did, mentally humming that tune from Hamilton.

Overall, the production – which was directed by Jade King Carroll – lacks a clear shape and forward momentum and feels overly effortful where it should be light and bouncy. The first act takes a long time to get its gears in motion, and then once the train is on the tracks it’s not very clear where we are headed. Nonetheless, Gunderson deploys an anachronistically modern language in the dialogue that often provides a nice frisson of humor – there are some good laughs along the way. Among the cast, Williams in particular, as Marie Antoinette, seems to capture the tone and spirit of Gunderson’s comedy; she also manages to finesse the play’s difficult transition to the dark part of history (in which the three “real” historical figures all end up on the scaffold with “Madame Guillotine”). And visually, the production is compelling: backgrounded by Anne Mundell’s fleur de lys and chandelier-strewn set, the four ladies look gorgeous in costume designer Susan Tsu’s 18th-century inspired clothes and wigs, and sound designer Fan Zhang and lighting designer Nicole Pearce have collaborated to find a theatrically effective solution for depicting the play’s fifth character, “Madame Guillotine.”

“The Father” at Kinetic Theatre Company

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In his Hamburg Dramaturgy, the 18th-century German playwright and critic Gotthold Ephraim Lessing claimed for theater, above all other arts, the capacity to arouse in an audience member a feeling that he termed Mitleid. That word, if you were to translate it literally, would be something like “suffering with”; Lessing theorized that drama achieved its greatest effect when spectators found themselves in a state of Mitleid with the character or characters in the play. The closest equivalent we have in English is probably “empathy” (although that’s far too modern a word for Lessing); other equivalents are “sympathy” or “compassion” (which is the term we used to translate Mitleid in our new translation of Lessing’s text). But there isn’t really a good English word to capture that sense of being with someone in their anguish and distress that the German term carries with it in its root of Leid.

Why am I talking about the translation of a German word in a post about Kinetic Theatre Company’s production of The Father? Well, because in fact, when I think about it, I can’t recall many experiences of theater in which I truly felt that I was “suffering with” a character in a play. I can think of instances where I felt sorry for a character (pity, compassion), or could imagine myself in their situation (empathy), or could identify with them on some level (sympathy). But truly suffer with them? That’s rare.

And that’s precisely the experience French playwright Florian Zeller offers in his masterfully constructed play The Father (the excellent translation is by Christopher Hampton). The central character – the father of the title – is Andre (the marvelous and heartbreaking Sam Tsoutsouvas), a retired engineer who suffers from dementia. He has an adult daughter, Anne (Catherine Gowl), and – at least as far as he knows – he lives in a large, beautifully appointed, immaculately clean apartment in Paris. At first, it seems that our glimpse into Andre’s condition will be mediated by Anne’s experience of coping with the symptoms of his dementia, that is, with his forgetfulness, his irritability, his hostile aggression toward the caregivers she employs, and his lack of understanding about what is happening to him.

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Sam Tsoutsouvas in The Father; Photo by Bea Nyilis courtesy of Kinetic Theatre Company

But we quickly come to realize that our point of identification is not Anne; it’s Andre himself, and the playwright has contrived to structure his scenes so that Andre’s experience of reality is replicated in our experience of the play. In the first scene, Anne tells Andre that she is about to move to London with her new boyfriend; in the second, a man (Gregory Johnstone) comes into the room and patiently reintroduces himself to Andre as Anne’s husband of the past decade. In the next scene, a different woman (Lisa Ann Goldsmith) arrives and claims to be Anne, and when a confused Andre asks after the husband, she gently reminds him that she is not married. In later scenes, Anne and her husband Pierre (now played by a different actor, Darren Eliker) try to get Andre to accept a new caregiver, Laura (Erin Lindsey Krom). Andre likes Laura because she looks like his other daughter Elise, whom he thinks is travelling but who is in fact deceased. Imagine his distress when Laura returns to take care of him the following day and no longer looks anything at all like Elise. This type of switcheroo continues, scene after scene after scene. Not only do people get mixed up, but time does too – we see and experience (with Andre) events happening in one order, or on one time scale; but then other characters in the play gently contradict our experience of time, explaining that things have, in fact, been happening in a different order, or occurred longer ago than Andre (and we) believe they did.

You could imagine a play or film in which a group of characters conspire to screw with someone’s sanity in such a manner, as part of an elaborate and cruel practical joke. That’s also one way to figure what it must feel like to suffer from Alzheimer’s or dementia – it must feel as if the world is conspiring to undermine your understanding of reality at every turn, by fucking around with the cast of characters who populate your world and making hay with the order of events and the flow of time. And as Andre suffers from the confusion and bafflement produced by his dementia, we find ourselves sharing in his bewilderment and in his incapacity to distinguish memory from present reality. At any given moment, it’s unclear whether what we are observing on stage is actually happening or only playing out in Andre’s mind, as reality, memory, and hallucination collide before our eyes.

Zeller’s play also opens an empathic window into the emotional lability of a person with dementia. Most of us would become enraged, too, if some person we had never seen before walked into our home and insisted that they were the caregiver we had met just the day before.  We, too, might respond to the tenuousness of our hold on reality by perseverating irritatingly on some beloved comfort item – a watch, for example  – or by treating the family members who have the difficult task of caring for us with cruel dismissiveness.

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L to R: Catherine Gowl, Erin Krom, & Sam Tsoutsouvas. Photo by Bea Nyilis, courtesy Kinetic Theatre Company.

Johnmichael Bohach’s eloquent scenic design plays a prominent role in the storytelling. The apartment morphs and changes throughout the play, subtly at first but then – in parallel with Andre’s loss of self – gradually losing its familiar features and becoming another space entirely. Tellingly, the unpredictability of the environment is at odds with the efforts, on the part of caregivers, to impose structure and order on Andre’s life, as evidenced, for example, in repeated urgings along the lines of “let’s get dressed now.” The production makes clear just how nonsensical and baffling such attempts at order must seem to a person whose surroundings appear to be changing inexplicably around them.

The Father is a structurally and emotionally complicated play, but director Andrew Paul makes it look easy. He has taken an understated approach that works beautifully: many of the scenes feel as if the characters are walking on eggshells with held breath. This feels right both as a depiction of what it feels like to be a caregiver to a person with dementia, and as an imagining of what a person with dementia might feel as they navigate a world in which reality shuffles around them like a jigsaw puzzle with interchangeable pieces. We suffer with them all, and in so doing, gain a world of understanding and insight into a devastating condition.

“Chatterton” at Quantum Theatre

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What – or who – is Chatterton?

Well, that depends on how much you trust the historical record, and, I guess, whether you believe anything can be verified by documents at all. The “real” Thomas Chatterton was a historical personage – an 18th-century English poet who committed suicide at the age of 17, after having invented a 15th-century poet, Thomas Rowley, and published a series of “found” poems under that assumed identity. The “fictional” Thomas Chatterton of Quantum Theatre’s adaptation of Peter Ackroyd’s 1987 novel Chatterton is, like his model, a forger of documents, and the trail of fakery he may or may not have left in his wake casts doubt on what seems to be a clear historical record. In this version, even his suicide may have been faked – or accidental – or real – and the same goes for a whole host of poems by later (and greater) poets whose work the fictional (or was it real?) Chatterton may or may not have imitated or forged after he supposedly did or didn’t die.

Are you confused? Complicating things further – for the audience member at least – is that at any given moment in the story you have only a very partial and incomplete picture of any of the three or four story lines that zip past each other and occasionally intersect in the course of a peripatetic three hours. Like Quantum’s 2014 production of Tamara, this production asks the audience to follow the characters through the space, trotting from room to room of the byzantine Trinity Cathedral as the action bounces from time period to time period and story line to story line.

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If you start the evening with a quill (as I did), you’ll mostly follow Chatterton (Jonathan Visser) himself as he tells you about his early life and freely confesses his invention of “Rowley” as a means of rising out of Bristolian poverty and establishing himself as a writer and poet. His story line is interrupted by scenes from “the present” (although a present that looks more like 1960 than 2018), in which well-known author Harriet Scrope (Helena Ruoti) has a terrible case of writer’s block and also schemes for reasons that are never completely clear to keep a younger author, Charles Wychwood (Tony Bingham), from cracking the mystery of whether or not Chatterton really committed suicide, and in which Merk (Tim McGeever), the assistant to a recently deceased painter, sells forgeries of that painter’s work to Mr. Leno (Alan Stanford), begging the question – as do Chatterton’s poems – of what constitutes a “real” work of art.

If you start the evening with a typewriter, as my date for the evening did, you spend more time with Scrope, Wychwood, and his friend Philip (Martin Giles) – a librarian, I believe? – and you learn a few secrets about them that we quill-followers weren’t privy to – for example, that Scrope may have plagiarized her first “breakthrough” novel.

And if you start the evening with a pen – well, I can’t tell you what you’ll learn, because unfortunately there wasn’t anyone near me from that track at the (very lovely) dinner that is served around 9 pm, so I wasn’t able to pick their brains about what they experienced while I was chasing after Chatterton and Merk, the art forger (pro tip: go in a group of three and take different tracks – and/or be much more outgoing about grilling your dinner companions than I was!)

Post-dinner, a third time period pulls into view, one in which painter Henry Wallis (Martin Giles) – the 19th-century artist who created a famous painting of Chatterton on his deathbed – convinces poet George Meredith (also a historical figure) to pose as Chatterton for his painting and at the same time falls in love with Meredith’s wife, Mary Ellen (Gayle Pazerski). Pazerski also plays Wychwood’s wife in the present day, who ends up falling in love with Philip after Wychwood dies of some mysterious illness that may have been explained in a track that I was not on.

As you can see from my description, there’s a lot about Chatterton that I can’t describe to you, because even with my partner taking a different track I wasn’t fully able to piece together the whole from its parts. Unlike in Tamara, where you could choose to follow one character through the entire story and thereby glean a full picture of that character’s experience in the world of the play, here the tracks are pre-determined and give you only limited – and frequently obstructed – glimpses of any one character’s journey. This not only makes the story perplexing but also keeps you from connecting to any of the characters – by the time we sat down for dinner almost two hours into the show I still hadn’t found a character whose dilemma I truly cared about.

The sense of ungroundedness to the action is compounded by the space in which the show takes place. A good deal of the action has been staged in the cavernous sanctuary of Trinity Cathedral, where the acoustics render much of the actors’ dialogue unintelligible and it’s not always clear where we are (in the world of the play, that is). Moreover, much as I love the feeling of adventure and scavenger hunt that goes along with scurrying after the actors as they go from scene to scene, it felt, in this case, as if the purpose of our moving from room to room was to replicate a cinematic structure rather than a theatrical adventure.

Nevertheless, there is a lot of ambition behind this production, and the thematic material being worked here feels very much aimed at our present historical moment. I have not read Ackroyd’s novel; I imagine, from this adaptation, that much of its punch and pleasure derives from a deployment of unreliable narration – that is, that as a reader you are constantly having the rug yanked out from underneath you by new information whose veracity is destabilized by your uncertainty about whether or not to trust the source. Writer/director Karla Boos and her writing partner Martin Giles seem, at any rate, to have sought to give their audience that experience of destabilization – we’re never sure who to trust here, or which documents are real, and as we watch characters later in history give credence to documents that scenes from earlier in history demonstrated to have been deliberately forged – or maybe not – we get the impression that the entire edifice on which the historical record rests could be as flimsy as a house of cards. That’s certainly a potent metaphor for the era of so-called “fake news” we currently inhabit.

“The Waiting Room” at CorningWorks

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There’s a sequence near the end of Beth Corning’s new dance piece The Waiting Room that struck a deep nerve with me. Performer Jacob Goodman begins to spin a simple pine coffin around a circle, like the hand of a clock, spinning it faster and faster as other dancers rush in, bearing the kinds of mundane objects that consume our days – a bowl of soup, a newspaper, an outfit – and scrambling to keep up with the spinning coffin. In the background, a fire begins to glow on the three projected screens, the dancer’s movements become more and more desperate, the rhythmic string music becomes more and more urgent, the coffin, and time, relentlessly spin on, the projections morph into an all-consuming forest fire, and suddenly the group of dancers stops, gestures, and disbands, leaving Goodman alone with the coffin once again.

Why did that sequence strike a nerve? Maybe it’s because, well, right now I’m sitting at my computer, staring at a screen, trying to convey my experience of the piece, and simultaneously struggling with the question of whether or not doing this is a valuable way to spend the precious minutes allotted to me. Am I simply allowing my time to be eaten up by life’s tasks – the meals prepared, the websites clicked on, the emails dealt with, the blog posts posted – while that coffin-clock hand spins down the hours to my certain death?

Such are the existential questions provoked by The Waiting Room. Goodman plays a Shomer, the man tasked, in the Jewish tradition, with guarding a dead body overnight before its burial. Actually, he’s a last-minute substitute for the regular Shomer, and because he’s been called in unexpectedly, he’s not fully prepared for the job. He’s forgotten his prayer book, so instead of reciting prayers, he begins to conjure – memories, stories, vignettes, dreams, fears, and images. A childhood story of watching a woman in a neighboring apartment undress. A memory of his mother’s cooking. Dreams of swimming.

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Jacob Goodman in “The Waiting Room.” Photo Frank Walsh, courtesy CorningWorks

Structured as it is around the stories the Shomer tells his dead companion to fill the hours of vigil, this dance theater piece is more narrative than most of Corning’s work, but like most of her work it also slides easily between the concreteness of language and the fuzzy indecisiveness of image and metaphor. Vignettes from the Shomer’s childhood morph from the mundane to the sublime, as if being co-present with death has made him – and us – more alert to the dimensions of being alive – pushing back against the truism, projected at one point on the screen, that “we live as if we don’t know about the certainty of death.” Iain Court’s lighting design gives the dance sequences that alternate with the narrative a quality of otherworldliness, making the “waiting room” a liminal space between life and death, where things that are actually present and things that are present only in imagination or memory collide, interact, share space, and activate each other.

Goodman brings a winning ease to the role of the Shomer, both as an actor and dancer, and his familiarity with Jewish tradition allows him to downplay what might seem odd about the tradition to those unfamiliar with it and to call attention, instead, to the way in which being co-present with the dead becomes an opportunity to connect with the divine and reflect on our own mortality. Catherine Meredith is mysterious and languid as the neighbor whose undressing fascinated the Shomer in his childhood, and Beth Corning brings humor tinged with melancholy to her portrayal of the Jewish mother, always with an offer of (too much) food. Corning’s always-illuminating and captivating choice of music is enhanced, in this production, by the addition of the voice and presence of John Carson, who plays the imagined deceased “Phil” (at least, that’s what I took him to be) and sings, toward the end of the performance, a haunting Irish melody. Stephanie Meyer-Staley’s scenic design looks deceptively simple, but eloquent touches – like the stones that weigh down the scroll-like screens, which evoke the Jewish tradition of placing pebbles on gravestones – add unexpected depth and poignancy to the visual field. Projections by Jakob Marsico and Jessica Medenbach add an additional layer of lyricism and out-of-this-worldness to the performance, interlayering text, drawn imagery, and video with the live performance.

“Grey Gardens” at Front Porch Theatricals

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Even if you’ve never seen the 1975 Maysles brothers cult documentary – or the 2009 fictionalized film – about Edith Bouvier Beale and “Little” Edie Beale, it’s likely you’ve caught wind at some point of the sordid gist of their story. Edith was Jackie Kennedy’s aunt; her daughter, “little Edie,” was Jackie’s cousin, and the discovery, in the early 1970s, that this pair of American aristocrats were living in almost indescribable squalor in their East Hampton family manse caused a considerable stir. How could these wealthy, high society women have fallen so very very low?

That’s the question the original documentary posed implicitly, and it’s the question posed explicitly at the beginning of the musical Grey Gardens,which was written by Doug Wright, with music by Scott Frankel and lyrics by Michael Korie. The musical opens in 1973, establishing the elderly Edith (Beth Johnstone Bush) and her daughter Edie (Daina Michelle Griffith) as two isolated, bickering biddies with way too many cats. It then flashes back, for the remainder of the first act, to 1941, as the grand, stately home is being readied for a party celebrating Edith’s engagement to Joseph Patrick Kennedy (Daniel Mayhak). Edie is “the girl who has everything,” her mother sings – and she does seem to have everything, except for parents who actually care about her emotional and psychological wellbeing.

The titles of the first act songs tell you everything you need to know about the toxic arch-patriarchal environment in which debs like Edie and her younger cousins Jackie and Lee Bouvier (Lucia Williams and Clara McGough) were groomed to take their place on the arms of future presidents, senators, oil tycoons, and Polish princes: “Body Beautiful Beale,” “Marry Well,” “Goin’ Places,” and  “Daddy’s Girl.” Scott Frankel’s music is shot through with dissonance, a choice that lends an appropriately jangly energy to the action on stage, in which mother Edith (Griffiths) divides her time between imperiously arranging the details of the party, flirting with her boytoy accompanist George Gould Strong (Chad Elder), and sabotaging her daughter’s future happiness (young Edie is played in the first act by Kaylie Mae Wallace).

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Daine Michelle Griffiths as “Little” Edie Bouvier Beale

Establishing the dysfunctional relationship between Edith and Edie is the main function of the first act. As Edie makes an attempt to escape her mother’s grip at the close of act one, Edith warbles “…I will be ever true…will you?” and upstage curtains open to reveal the decrepitude of their home thirty years in the future. Act two gains momentum as it plops us smack dab into the world of the Maysles documentary – that is, into a house overfilled with junked furniture and foul garbage, including more empty cat food tins than you really care to think about (the set, by Johnmichael Bohach, is so vividly realized that you can practically smell the stench of cat piss and rotting food). Griffiths is instantly recognizable as the middle-aged “little” Edie, thanks in part to Julianne D’Errico’s iconic costuming (on opening night, her entrance garnered a wave of appreciative and knowing applause), but also largely to her nuanced and sympathetic portrayal of the character, and especially of her precarious grip on reality. She captures Edie’s charm and charisma as well as her depression and despair (and the night I saw the show she also managed a masterful moment of improvisation in an attempt to get an audience member to silence a singing phone).

Director Robyne Parrish and music director Doug Levine have put together a tight production, one anchored by fine performances by the entire ensemble, but especially by Griffiths and Bush, who generate a lot of friction as they unspool the at-times bitter, and at-times weirdly loving, relationship between a narcissistic mother and daughter who can’t escape their need for each other’s suffocating attention.

Your Presence is Requested at Bricolage’s First Annual Micro-immersive Fundraiser

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Dear Reader, I’ll be there … I may even be in costume! Won’t you join me?

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Get your ticket today

Bazaar is the first of its kind and if you’ve ever participated in a Bricolage production, you should expect nothing less than an astounding sensory experience.

Indulge in local libations from Pennsylvania Pure Distilleries, Boyd & Blair Potato Vodka and BLY Silver Rum. Feed your inner child with a delightful array of festival food. Tantalize the senses in a collection of mini immersive stations, each one designed by different performers, artists, and designers. 

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 Visit the Bricolage website to learn more. If for any reason you aren’t able to attend, please consider making a donation to Bricolage. Pittsburgh is lucky to have such an intrepid production company at its fingertips, and I’m excited to see what more they have in store.
 
Here is the Facebook event page, make sure to RSVP after you buy your ticket. Hope to see you there! 
 
PS: For you adventurous theater-goers, costumes are encouraged. Run with it!

“Stupid Fucking Bird” at 12 Peers Theater

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Playwright Aaron Posner gets something that few American directors and actors do: Anton Chekhov’s plays are funny.Not smiling-wryly funny, or inwardly-groaning funny, but actually-get-you-to-burst-out-laughing funny. They’re chock full of comic situations, oddball characters, and ridiculous turns of events; the problem is that most American interpretations of Chekhov, seduced by the psychological depth in his plays, treat them as melodrama rather than satire (a relatively recent exception to that tendency was PICT’s 2012 production of Three Sisters, directed by Harriet Power). But Posner isn’t fooled by all that theatrical realism, and in Stupid Fucking Bird, his “sort of” adaptation of Chekhov’s The Seagull,he not only translates Chekhov’s comedy into an idiom we can chuckle at, but also threads a commentary on the relationship of artists and their audience that highlights the gulf between the meaning artists seek to convey and the messages audiences receive.

Posner’s theatrical world roughly echoes Chekhov’s in terms of plot and characters (although most of the character names have been de-Russified), but onto that he has layered a metatheatrical conceit: the actor/characters regularly address the audience directly, as people who are aware that they are characters in a play. This fourth-wall breaking brings a giddy energy to the play, especially because it’s rather haphazardly deployed. At some points it seems as if we are being addressed by the characters themselves – like when the suicidal playwright Con (Chris Cattell) encourages us to imagine a new kind of theater, one completely unlike the play we are watching right now – but at other points it feels like we are being addressed by the actors – as when Matt Henderson tells Cattell that he shouldn’t expect the audience to respond to a direct request for advice, because “they know you’re fictional,” and Cattell looks at us desperately and pleads “If only I had some friend in the audience.”

Stupid Fucking Bird has a lot of complicated moving parts, sliding as it does between and among Chekhov’sThe Seagull,Posner’s adaptation of The Seagull as Stupid Fucking Bird, the play-within-the-play called Here We Are that Con presents to his mother Emma (Maura Underwood) and her lover Trigorin (Stefan Lingenfelter), and Posner’s many and varied metatheatrical asides. Director Vince Ventura has added his own layer of complexity in the form of choreographed moments of reflection and in sound and lighting cues that pull the play out of the real and into a heightened theatricality during some of its more “meta” moments and that look and feel very much like the kind of thing Con would stage as part of his own attempts to remake the art of theater (more metatheatricality!)

This is some of the strongest work I’ve seen 12 Peers Theater produce to date. Cattell grounds the production with his nuanced characterization of Con; the characters who orbit around his absurd existential despair include Sarah Chelli’s ebullient – and later bat-shit crazy – Nina, Underwood’s regally narcissistic Emma Arkadina, Henderson’s neurotic sadsack Dev, and Sara Ashley Fisher’s gothically depressed Mash. Lingenfelter is likeable (perhaps rather too much so) as the genius writer Trigorin, and David Maslow plays a baffled and existentially-challenged Dr. Sorn.

“Gloria” at Hatch Arts Collective

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If you’ve ever worked at a job in which you were underpaid to have your skills and talents demoralizingly underutilized, then the magazine publishing office in which the first act of Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’s play Gloria takes place may be both painfully and hilariously familiar to you. It’s the kind of place that recruits smart young idealistic college grads dreaming of glamorous jobs in publishing, only to plop them in a cubicle and task them with answering the phone, restocking the printer with paper, and scheduling their bosses’ lunch dates.

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L to R: Moira Quigley, Sami Ma, Dylan T. Jackson, Max Pavel. Photo courtesy Hatch Arts Collective.

More specifically, the scene is a group office (cannily designed by Katy Fetrow) staffed by three editorial assistants – Dean (Max Pavel), Kendra (Sami Ma), and Ani (Moira Quigley) – who occupy the bottom rung of the office hierarchy along with a college-aged intern, Miles (Dylan T. Jackson), whom the three assistants freely boss around because he’s the only person below them on the pecking order. As Miles has figured out over his six weeks with the magazine, everyone in this toxic environment is deeply unhappy: Dean is a failed memoirist with a budding alcohol addiction; the nakedly ambitious Kendra bitterly resents having been assigned to an editor who won’t give her any writing assignments; and Ani is drifting aimlessly in a job she seems to have fallen into by accident (she majored in neuroscience).

None of these three seem to have much actual work to do, which is a big part of the problem; instead, they spend most of their time scrabbling for status within the office hierarchy by sabotaging each other and engaging in verbal and psychological warfare. They are joined in their misery by Lorin (Ricardo Vila-Roger), the almost-40-year-old “head fact checker” who works down the hall and who declares, in a moment of existential despair, that working for this magazine “just sucks your soul out of you and leaves you with your dreams gone,” and by the sad-sack introverted and socially-awkward Gloria (Erika Cuenca), a fifteen-year veteran with the firm who works in “copy” (whatever that is) and who, the evening before, had thrown a big and expensively catered housewarming party for herself – to which noone in the office except Dean came.

It’s the kind of place where, as that saying goes about academe, the fights are so vicious because the stakes are so low.

Except when suddenly they’re not.

Dear Reader, forgive me a small digression. I’m not going to spoil the most unexpected moment in this play by giving away what happens, and if you are someone who would prefer to experience the surprise that the playwright has prepared for you, then for the love of all that is holy, when you receive the email that Hatch Arts Collective will send you with information about how to find the performance space in the cavernous and user-unfriendly Nova Place, DO NOT scroll down to the end, as I (unfortunately) did, and read the “sensitive content” warning. I’m here to assure you that you’ll be fine without that warning – and that you’ll have a superior experience of the play for having ignored it.

Suffice it to say that these office workers are subjected to a traumatizing event. The second act of the play opens a few months later, when the characters are coping, in the only way they seem to know how, with the aftereffects of that trauma: that is, they are writing about it and trying to make a profit off of it, some more successfully than others. Where the first act is (mostly) a brilliant comic skewer of office politics, the second is a cynical dissection of the way the media industry churns tragedy into profit and the way victims of trauma can be revictimized through the stories that do (and don’t) catch hold in the public imagination.

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Ricardo Vila-Roger as Lorin. Photo courtesy Hatch Arts Collective.

You might guess from my description that it kind of feels like there are two plays here, which is a challenge director Adil Mansoor addresses through both staging choices and sound cues (by Eben Hoffer) that “ghost” the first act into the second, and thereby not only tie the two halves together, but also theatricalize the psychological chaos with which the characters must cope. Mansoor introduces what is, in essence, a new theatrical vocabulary partway into the second act as a signal that everything has changed and that the world has shifted in strange and unpredictable ways around the characters. It’s a bold and laudable directorial choice, but in several moments it’s either distracting (as when the scene changes behind Nan (Erika Cuenca) as she describes her experience to her fellow publishing exec Sasha (Moira Quigley)) or confounding (as with the difficult-to-parse final sound cue), rather than evocative.

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Mansoor has nevertheless directed with a sure hand and coaxed marvelous performances from his ensemble. Ma is sharp and wickedly funny as Kendra, the “tiger daughter” who spends most of the first act deftly and acerbically dissecting the flaws and foibles of her co-workers. Pavel – who is right now ranking among my favorite local actors – brings an edgy sensitivity to his portrayal of Dean, the character who has the biggest emotional journey in the play, and a pitchperfect, laidback-but-patronizing irritability to his characterization of the IT dude in the final scene of the play. Cuenca steps into new territory in her portrayal of the social outcast Gloria in the first act and is satisfyingly ice-queen-y as Nan in the second. Vila-Roger lands the play’s emotional punch in the final scene, as we see his character quietly and gently trying to “figure out how to be” after a few years in an emotional wilderness. Quigley and Jackson each play multiple characters with clear and precisely observed differentiation. Quigley shifts agilely from the youngish, unperturbable Ani to the dismissively confident, at-the-top-of-her-game publishing exec Sasha to the very young and emotionally labile TV studio assistant Callie. Jackson’s performance – as the confident but soft spoken intern Miles in the first act, the chatty and politically woke barista Shawn in the second scene, and the newly crowned master of mediatainment Rashaad in the third – may be the most protean of all, and he sells the moment in which Miles realizes what’s happening in the first act with unforgettable clarity.

Gloria isn’t a perfect play, but the Hatch Arts Collective production is commendable, with professional-level production values and ensemble work that rival any of the larger and (presumably) much better-funded theatrical enterprises in town. The space, a repurposed storefront, is transformed not only by Fetrow’s mobile set and clever special effects but also by John A. Mitchell’s lighting design, which helps pull the play into a psychological space at key moments in the second act. Alexis Carrie’s costume designs key exquisitely to the characters, establishing subtle but precise distinctions between them on the multiple axes of gender, race, age, and social status, and Eben Hoffer’s sound design brings both the external and internal trauma of the play to vivid life.

In Memoriam — Gabe D’Abruzzo

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I have spent this past week heartsick at the loss of Gabe D’Abruzzo, who died this past Monday in a drowning accident in New Jersey.

I first met Gabe in 2012, when I joined the Bach Choir of Pittsburgh, for which he was the insanely talented accompanist. Gabe was a master pianist who could sight-read virtually anything, and for whom it seemed no piece of music was too difficult. Allegro runs of thirty-second notes with key changes every other bar? No sweat. Play a 2/4 rhythm in one hand against a 6/8 rhythm on the other? Bring it on. Take on the jarring, dissonant accompaniment to modern compositions with unexpected chord configurations and multiple tempo changes? Piece of cake. And no matter how devilishly difficult the score, Gabe made it all look effortless and easy, as if his fingers were merely a conduit to the keyboard for the notes on the page.

In so many ways, Gabe was part of the glue of the Bach Choir – he helped teach us all, by both example and through occasional observations and notes, how to be better musicians, and through his virtuoso musicianship he incentivized us all to rise to his level of excellence. Gabe was a musician in every fiber of his being. Although he never told me so directly, I believe he had perfect pitch – at the very least, he often amazed us all by being able to determine that, for example, the bass section had sung an E flat instead of an E in a given measure (something he’d somehow managed to hear while playing accompaniment on a grand piano). I remember vividly one time we didn’t have a tenor soloist in rehearsal, and when none of the choir members felt confident enough to sight-read the solo, Gabe volunteered to sing it himself, and proceeded to play the piano score and sight-sing the vocal line (much to the shame and embarrassment of us mere mortals in the choir) with a clear tenor that rivalled anyone in the choir. Gabe also had a compendious memory for music – at times we would encounter a melody or chord progression that seemed vaguely familiar, and suddenly Gabe would bust out a bar or two of the classical or popular music it resembled from his internal music Rolodex. He was, in short, the definition of a prodigious talent.

I came to know Gabe more closely a few years ago when my daughters began singing with the Fox Chapel Area High School choirs – he also served as their accompanist, and after hearing him play my oldest daughter arranged to take piano lessons from him. Gabe was as brilliant a teacher as he was a musician, inspiring his students to take on challenges they didn’t know they were ready for and generous in his sharing of both technical skill and musical theory.

The last time I saw Gabe, it was at a “Summer Sing” held by the Bach Choir. We were singing the Beethoven Choral Fantasy, which begins with something like fifteen minutes of a wickedly challenging and absolutely gorgeous piano solo. I had listened to the piece on youtube earlier in the day before rehearsal and had been impressed by the difficulty of the piano concerto that starts the piece. Because the purpose of the summer sing is primarily to give vocalists a chance to try out new music, I had assumed that we would only be singing the choral part when we gathered together. But to all our surprise, Gabe played the first half of the piece, and he didn’t merely play it – he performed it, stunningly, breathtakingly, masterfully. Five minutes in, I wished I had realized what was about to happen and pulled out my phone to get a recording, because not only was his performance vastly superior to the youtube version I had heard earlier that day, but it was also a little surreal to be present as this musical genius – in shorts and flip flops – absolutely slayed the Choral Fantasy for an audience of a hundred volunteer singers in the chapel of Rodef Shalom. It was a gift I wanted to share with others somehow.

Now I wish I had taken that video because it was the last I would ever hear Gabe play.

We will miss you, Gabe; we will miss your humor, your grace, your genius, and, above all, the music you brought into our lives.