Jen Childs Rocks My World

So, I had mentioned the Barrymore nominations. I attended the epic-long ceremony to announce the nominated performers, designers, and directors; and I have to say, a lot of people are scratching their heads. This is not meant to detract from the work that did get recognized ... but wow. If you're curious, go over to the Theatre Alliance site and check them out.

But after that, I had the inexpressible pleasure of watching Jen Childs workshop a performance piece at the Suzanne Roberts Theatre for a select group of friends and fellow artists. Jen is a co-founder of 1812 Productions, and a marvelously funny performer; but that is not what makes her (in my humble opinion) perhaps the best female actor in the city. Rather, what I treasure about her is that she has a directness, an honesty and openness and total willingness to go to scary emotionally vulnerable places on stage -- and she takes the audience with her every step of the way.

The piece tonight took us through Jen's complicated relationship with dance. I don't want to give too much away, as the piece isn't finished and hasn't been publicly presented ... but by the end of the performance I had laughed and cried, both with abandon, and I felt like a bigger-souled person for it.

Watch for Jen Childs. Seriously, people, your life here in Philly is not complete unless you've seen her perform. And when this piece opens, buy tickets and take all your closest friends.

(And if Jen reads this and will send me a picture to post, I'll put it up -- otherwise, I can't think of anything that would do justice to her awesomeness.)

In Search of Our Own Grey Gardens

Last week I attending the opening of Grey Gardens at the Philadelphia Theatre Company's Suzanne Roberts Theatre. (The image at left is from the original documentary trailer in 1976.) The show, an interesting take on this crazy mother-daughter duo set to music that somehow combines old '40s-era glamour and Sondheim-inflected quirk ("Jerry doesn't want any sex with you!" sings Big Edie to Little Edie) ticks along without a hitch, as the projection-lit set spins madly from lush Waverly florals and Arcadian landscapes to a dilapidated kitty playground. Kim Carson as young Little Edie, Hollis Resnik as young Big Edie and old Little Edie, and Joy Franz as old Big Edie all nail their roles, playing off each other in true mother-daughter fashion. Resnik in particular elaborates Carson's earlier tics and habits into compulsive and constant motion as Little Edie. Franz's Big Edie turns on a dime from querulous cat lady to nurturing grande dame with the arrival of Jerry, a young pothead who hangs out at Grey Gardens with its aging recluses. And Carson shows us all of Little Edie's potential at the moment of its destruction--"The Girl Who Has Everything" except (thanks to her mother) a wedding ring and a life of her own.

Watching the show, I imagined one could come away with a sense of distance from these ridiculously wealthy women who lost everything, including their ability to function in the world. Instead, I found myself sympathizing with both of these women. They lived in a world of men who measured their worth as adornments--Little Edie's young cousin Jackie Bouvier reminds us throughout the show of the extent to which she perfected this role. How, then, can we wonder at the lengths the Edies would go to, to escape this masculine world? Or at the same time their desperation to be a part of it? And how far have we really come?

For myself, I sympathize with the urge to wrap oneself in the trappings of middle-class comfort: a house, a yard, a car, summer barbecues and winter vacations to warmer climes. I also recognize, having given these things up, that the trappings can be a trap, soothing one with normality and mainstream acceptability while at the same time condemning anything that veers outside the boundaries. I never lived in the Hamptons, where "they get you for wearing red on Thursdays" according to Little Edie, but I have felt the pressure that comes from familial and social expectations. It's not easy to walk away from those expectations without cutting myself off from the people who hold them.

How many of us are trapped in Grey Gardens of our own? Not even necessarily because of our gender, but because we make choices based on social pressures rather than the pressures of our own hearts? And how many of us, in choosing to ignore or flout the mainstream, become mere tangents to the workings of the world around us? For me, the Edies issue a challenge to the rest of us: live authentically, and with passion, in the world. It's a delicate balance. I'm going to try to find it.

Frog and Toad in the City

Once upon a Sunday noon, a fabulous boy and his fabulous mama went to see a play. Not just any play, but A Year with Frog and Toad, now playing at the Arden, and running through April 19. The boy was filled with youthful anticipation, and skipped the whole way down to 2nd Street. The mama felt a bit like skipping too. As I am the mama of this boy, I was lucky enough to interview the young patron of the arts following the performance; here is his expert assessment of the afternoon.

Mama: What were your favorite parts? I noticed you dancing in your seat quite a lot.

Fabulous Boy: I liked it when Frog tried to wake up Toad, and Toad said, “Blegh!!!!” Also do you remember when Toad took his shoe and went like this [here our reviewer gestures wildly] and smashed his clock? That was hilarious! [Yes, my five-year-old says hilarious.] The best favoritest part was when Frog threw a snowball at Toad and Toad looked like [FB gives arch, comical expression], and when Toad went the wrong way on his sled and got really frightened and cold.

M: It sounds like you really enjoyed it!

FB: It was okay.

M: Were there any parts you didn’t like?

FB: Frog and Toad didn’t look like a frog or a toad. [I’ve interviewed several other young reviewers, and they all shared this critique. Not even green face paint! Nor a head-dress of any sort!] But the actors were neat, and the set was pretty neat. I liked the spinning houses.

M: Did any musical numbers stand out for you?

FB: The “Cookies” song was exciting. Cookies cookies cookies cookies we are eating cookies …

[Here our reviewer gets a bit distracted remembering his enjoyment of said musical number. We resumed after a minute or two of singing, and several loud requests for cookies.]

M: That was fun. I wonder if there’s a soundtrack available?

FB: What’s a sound trat?

M: Any other comments you’d like to share?

FB: The kite flying part was not so exciting. I could see the string holding the kite up.

M: Yes, me too. Who do you think should go see this show?

FB: I recommend it for people ages 2, 3, 4, 5, and 23, and for mommies and daddies. And also for people who never saw a frog.

Jerry and Coffee and Me

Philadelphia coffee shops have become my office away from office. Had I an office in which to sit, I would leave that office and go sit in a coffee shop and do much the same thing I would do in said imaginary workspace: position myself in front of my laptop, mug of coffee in hand, half a dozen browser tabs open, iTunes downloading something to watch later, and at least three Word documents underway. I would type noisily in this little cubicle of my fancy, as I do here at the shop, averaging about 100 wpm and gazing around me all the while. But would I be able to observe humanity quite as well from my corner office on the 47th floor—as I stand there in my impeccably tailored suit, weight balanced evenly on my Louboutins, hands masterfully on my hips—as I can from the table near the outlet, prime real estate of the coffee shop neighborhood?

And perhaps in this dreamscape office, all flashing lights and stainless steel and flat panel screens, staffed by agents who look like Daniel Craig and talk like … well, like Daniel Craig … perhaps in this office I wouldn’t be exposed to quite the species diversity I’ve found in the java huts of our fair city. It goes without saying that at The Last Drop you get hipsters, at La Colombe you find your euro-types (trash is such a derogatory term, I shan’t use it!), and at Cosi there'll be office workers grabbing the same quick and overpriced sandwich they come in for at least three times a week. But every so often, here in the caffeinated realms, you find a Jerry. Or more to the point, he. finds. YOU.

I use the name “Jerry” as an erudite and timely reference to Edward Albee’s The Zoo Story, in which a derelict character of that name can NOT STOP TALKING ON AND ON AND ON AND ON to the unsuspecting middle-upper-class Peter as he attempts to read a book. Peter sways from disinterest to interest to disgust and back again any number of times throughout the one-act play, much as I did the other afternoon as I was accosted by my very own Jerry. I have no idea what his actual name was; thank the heavens above we did not exchange names, or I would be in serious trouble. (Having a unique first name means that sharing it with someone is as good as giving them your address, phone number, and top five favorite hangouts. True story.) At any rate, I will call him Jerry.

Here I am, sitting in the crowded café, drinking my cuppa and attempting to find job postings that sound like something I could conceivably do without loss of sanity or dignity or clothing. Within five minutes of my sitting down, Jerry moves in. A seat opens up next to me and sure enough, Jerry swaps his seat for this one; he begins to make small talk. I am a friendly person. I like people, and I’m apparently rather approachable. So talking a little bit about the coffee, and the day, and what I’m doing, does not seem unreasonable. At first. But over the course of the next five hours (no lie), as I try to make use of my dwindling online time (can’t afford internet access at home), Jerry proceeds to share with me his life story, or stories. The time he was in Thailand, going from ashram to ashram. The cat he befriended while he was there. His work as a stand-up comedian. How different this coffee shop is from the ones he likes in Paris. How he hates the internet, and can’t understand people who come to public places like coffee shops and then don’t want to be talked to. (Oh, Jerry, where to begin with my explanation of this phenomenon!) Seriously, I think I’m accidentally making the man sound interesting. And the thing about him is, he could be interesting. He had more interesting life experiences than most people, even if they all only happened in his mind. But Jerry, as with all Jerrys (no offense to people actually named Jerry), has no sense of social cues. Had I been sitting there in the coffee shop hoping someone would come talk to me so that I could turn him into a character in a book (a very long book), I would have been set. As it was, I spent five hours and wrote one (1) cover letter. I didn’t even have a chance to update my facebook status! THE HORROR!!!!!

I’m realizing now that I could go on and on about Jerry, and my inability to cut someone like Jerry off mid-sentence with a stern “I’m trying to work here.” But perhaps, in doing so, I would become a Jerry myself, leaving you to give thanks that you are reading this rather than sitting next to me in a coffee shop. Instead, I'll leave you with this: Edward Albee’s At Home at the Zoo, which is comprised of The Zoo Story as a second act and a new play, Homelife, as the first act, is now playing at the Suzanne Roberts Theatre, home of the Philadelphia Theatre Company. I saw it opening night, and it was the first show I’ve seen in quite a while that didn’t leave me making mental tweaks during the performance. I recommend it.

Theater review: The Karma Cookie

The Karma Cookie is a funny play. This shouldn’t surprise anyone: it’s a funny name, and the folks at 1812—“Philadelphia’s ALL COMEDY Theatre Company”—know funny. But what makes the performance a side-tickling confection of verbal quips, mental gymnastics, and broad slapstick is not the script but the production itself. The direction, design, and particularly the acting of this ridiculous show left me and my friends giggling, chortling, chuckling, laughing, and even (I won’t name names) guffawing in delight. I myself let out at least two embarrassingly loud snorts, I’m not ashamed to admit.

To describe the play: think Waiting for Godot, but not. P. Seth Bauer’s script is chock-full of existential silliness, but as I sit here a week after seeing the show, what I remember are not lines so much as moments between Barry (Anthony Lawton) and Alistair (Jered McLenigan) as they struggle between Barry’s innate pessimism and Alistair’s childlike optimism, searching for meaning in the most meaningless of places. Lawton and McLenigan brought a frenetic energy to their performances, with scenes that crackled and sparked and left me breathless. The pauses in their pacing felt less like momentary peace and more like the winding up of a particularly explosive toy. Whether contemplating baby theft or discovering their inner fascists (“The Workout Will Set You Free!”), both actors’ whole-bodied commitment never flagged.

The production design more than complemented the actors’ performances, serving more as a third member of an ensemble than as a supporting element. What seemed at first like a plain, unadorned blackbox stage transformed cleverly into (among other things) a Chinese restaurant, a Buddhist monastery, a hospital delivery ward, Westminster Abbey, hell (?), and ultimately, Scotland. Matt Saunders’s set and Paul Moffitt’s lighting combined to make of the Adrienne’s space a puzzle-box: part of the fun was waiting to see what it would turn into next.

The Karma Cookie runs now through March 29th, and in this economic climate I cannot recommend it highly enough. What more could you ask for—the tickets are cheap, and it’s a good laugh. Enjoy!

Theater review: Scorched

I've been lucky enough in the past couple of weeks to see some fine theater in our fine city. If you're a student, CHECK OUT THE WILMA -- they offer insanely cheap student season subscriptions. I'm absolutely going to renew mine. And 1812 offers great subscription rates, too! Way to keep the theater accessible, people!

This past weekend I saw the Wilma's latest offering in politically hard-hitting drama, Scorched, by Wajdi Mouawad and translated from the French by Linda Gaboriau. The translation was beautiful, poetic--and made me wish my French were better, because I imagine the original is still more so. The story is anything but subtle, though subtle isn't exactly what I expect from Blanka anyway: the Ziskas pull no punches, to be sure. We follow a twin brother and sister on a quest to discover their mother's secrets, following directives in her will. The present-day scenes alternate with flashbacks of the mother's experiences in an unnamed, war-torn Middle Eastern country: hers is a "boy meets girl, boy impregnates girl, boy disappears and girl is forced to give up her baby, girl spends her life seeking this child and inadvertently becomes a peace activist and national hero, girl's adult children only learn her tragic story after her death" kind of story. You know, the usual.

The big secret, the one that leaves the audience gasping, is devastating, though perhaps in an overly melodramatic way. The actors playing the mother (Aadya Bedi as young Nawal, Jacqueline Antaramian as adult Nawal, and Janis Dardaris as old Nawal) are all excellent, creating a deeply sympathetic and multi-faceted character among the three of them. But unfortunately, the significant moments of revelation lie in the hands of less talented performers. Omar Koury, cast as a chorus figure who reappears throughout the play as a series of secondary characters, fails entirely: he plays no character convincingly, nor does he manage a stylized chorus figure who observes rather than takes part in the play. Instead, he seemed more like a stand-up comedian. Giving this actor the responsibility of explaining to the present-day actors and to the audience just how horribly, ironically painful the mother's life had been is like asking Chris Farley to explain the Holocaust.

The present-day actors, Leila Buck and Ariel Shafir, are serviceable in their roles, and Jolly Abraham brings a passionate intensity to her portrayal of Nawal's friend and partner on her quest. Benjamin Lloyd, as the executor of Nawal's will, is undoubtedly talented, adding lightness to an otherwise heavy play. But while I understand the playwright’s desire to give the audience a respite from the somber plot, I felt cheated by this character's constant malapropisms. The word play was cheap, an easy out for an audience that I didn't feel had earned their laugh; it diminished my ability to feel the rest of the story in my bones. Indeed, Lloyd seemed to be embarrassed by these lines, though perhaps I was merely embarrassed for him. Otherwise, he brought a sweet, optimistic pathos to his character, as the only person who cared for Nawal in her final years--her only friend.

My plus-one astutely noted that the design for the show was crisp, with a versatile minimalist set and richly evocative musical composition. The bare platform easily shifted from orphanage, to notary’s office, to U.N. courtroom with ease, aided by a deftly sparse lighting design.

All told, I came away from the play feeling scorched by the story, by the knowledge that the events of the story could be true; but ultimately the production and the script didn't live up to their full potential. I hold the Wilma to higher standards. Still, don't take my word for it: I would recommend the show as an ambitious undertaking with a (mostly) great cast, an evening of theater that if nothing else, will make you think.