Theater Review: Righteou$ Money

published 16 January 2012

One-person plays present a unique level of responsibility for the featured performer.  To carry a play without the benefit of a supporting cast is a test of endurance, focus, and chops for the actor.  Ditto the playwright.  When there is no foil, no sidekick, no comic relief, no straight man-- no gay neighbor--you’ve only got one character: so he had better be an interesting one.  Wolf 359’s production of “Righteous Money” is an example of that sublime and uncommon marriage of good acting with good material. 

Written and performed by the excellent Michael Yates Crawley, “Righteous Money” is an acerbic social commentary and dark comedy that details the psychological undoing of its hero CJ, a television personality and Wall Street power player.

The tiny Red Room Theater has been made over as a soundstage, and we are the studio audience in this live broadcast of CJ’s nationally syndicated financial advice show.  As CJ holds court over his audience of minions, all the while insulting and belittling their very worth as human beings, we learn that he long ago gave up kindness, humility, and all traces of political correctness during his ascent to financial success-- and a TriBeCa penthouse. 

In one brilliantly absurd and telling moment he says to his followers, “When I look into your souls, I see a bunch of (expletive) idiots.”  CJ is so forthright and full of himself, he can without irony claim to look into people’s souls.  And when he then calls those people idiots, it is not so much an affront as it is a warning.  CJ is Ebenezer Scrooge but with mad charisma.

Today has just not been CJ’s day.  Not only was he awoken from sleep by the Occupy Wall Street protests outside his (floor-to-ceiling, soundproof) windows, but his assistant Nathan has also decided not to show up for work, and his guest for the evening, financial guru Suze Orman, is missing in action.  CJ is able to hold it together on the air, though, spouting his appalling financial guidance, and trying during commercial breaks to keep the show afloat.

He admits to sacrificing all emotions and the hope of ever finding love in order to focus all his energies on mounting his wealth.  This is not a fact he mourns; to the contrary, he advises that his audience follow suit.  Why waste time building relationships, after all, when time is money?  Why even bother with conversation when “words only matter if they’re spoken to a broker during trading hours?”

As he is a larger-than-life television personality, CJ tends to speak in hyperbole (“I am God, you barnacle.”).  But as he descends into madness, we see that he has taken every piece of his own callous advice and turned it into this rigid, heartless reality.  However, disclosures about his sex life, the intricacies of his relationship with Nathan, and his recurring Macbethian hallucinations in the teleprompter reveal that there is still at least a modicum of human feeling beneath the façade. 

“Righteous Money” lampoons consumer culture, greed, and lust for the material while showcasing a layered, tragic anti-hero.  It re-casts the American dream as a waking nightmare.  There’s even self-flagellation.  

Having toured several cities around the globe, Crowley and director Michael Rau bring it to New York with polish and style.  It is funny, engaging, and right on the money.  

Theater Review: Helen Keller on Vaudeville

published 10 January 2012

Helen Keller’s legend is part of the American consciousness.  Famously deaf and blind by her nineteenth month, she overcame the silent darkness that could have cursed her to a lifetime of lonesome misery and in the process became a global symbol of triumph over devastating circumstances.  Today, what most of us know about her is summed up in “The Miracle Worker,” that oft-produced play and film which ends with teacher Annie Sullivan’s breakthrough and little six-year old Helen speaking her first word. 

Michele-Leona Godin has written “The Star of Happiness:Helen Keller on Vaudeville?!” as an examination and celebration of Helen’s life beyond that childhood moment.  Godin employs the use of video and image projections (expertly curated and designed by David Lowe), her own vocal recordings, and thoughtful research to bring Helen to life not only as that icon of survival against the odds, but also as a real human being.

As Godin is a regular adjunct and occasional faculty at NYU, the evening aptly begins as an informative and engaging lecture on Keller’s personal history and significance in shaping modern society’s view of the disabled.  Suddenly, the mean and careless voice of what sounds like a hateful playground bully booms from the speaker, interrupting the talk with crass, malicious, and ,to say the least, politically incorrect jokes aimed at blind people, deaf people, and Helen Keller herself (of the Why-did-Helen-Keller-cross-the-road variety). 

The lone spotlight darkens.  An awkward discomfort descends upon the house as Godin appears to fluster and become frustrated at having to defend her subject against the cruel jeering.  (Awkward, too, because the audience was populated by a number of blind people on the night I attended.)  In the small, black box style Kraine Theater, in total darkness, hearing loudly and clearly these fragmented, hate-filled ramblings, one is transported into the experience of the disabled and victimized, the blind spectacle.  In that moment dripping with pathos Godin reveals her lecture as true performance art.

In the second act (there are three), Godin emerges in a shimmering gown and recreates Keller’s appearances on the Vaudeville circuit.  She answers the questions of curious onlookers and defends Keller’s detractors who call her a sell-out or a side-show.  Practicality, Godin reminds us, is the reason Keller took to the Vaudeville stage: “There weren’t many jobs available in 1920 to a deaf, blind woman.”  She goes on to further humanize her subject with clues about Keller’s sex life and reports of her rather voluptuous figure and how Vaudeville audiences responded to it.  One of the evening’s most revealing moments is the reading of a letter that Keller wrote at age forty-two to a would-be suitor.

The show features the song “Star of Happiness” (newly recorded by Christina B.) that was written for Keller’s Vaudeville act, and where the show gets its title.  (In one of many humorous moments, Godin does acknowledge how cheesy the title is.)  She also uses what she calls an avant-accordion, a device used to record elements of a song, loop them, and layer them right there on stage.  Though she had technical difficulties during the recording, the song nonetheless served as a reverberating and poignant soundtrack to the show’s final moments. 

By introducing elements of her own life into the story, Godin--who herself has a degenerative eye disease--has given the show a presence and urgency without which it could have descended into mere idol worship.  She channels Keller not through impersonation, but through her own experience, which forces the observer to confront his own ideas and perceptions of blindness, deafness, and what it means to fully live a life. 

  

My Fist-- uh, First-- Published Theater Review

published 8 January 2012 

Matt Wilson’s “The Ventriloquist Circle” is a camp surrealist murder mystery set in the world of fetish porn.  (That a play with this title is not a tale of madcap puppeteers and their voice-throwing hijinks will only be the first shock of the evening.)  Turns out, a ventriloquist circle is three or more fisters/fistees each performing that act on the next in a great big circle of transitive fisting.   Are you getting the image?

The play opens with porn star and impresario Cox The Milk Man (a handsome, near-nude Daniel Piper Kublick) phoning in a confession to his priest during a break from the filming of one such ventriloquist circle.  “How far can the arm be inserted before fisting becomes a crime against God?” he asks.  The play will go on to raise many more (and answer very few) outrageous questions about power, control, morality, lust and the ongoing fight for freedom from social constructs.

Both Wilson and director Kathryn Hamilton have structured the work as a send-up of the very industry it portrays.  The play is populated by caricatures, cardboard cut-outs of iconic American characters: the Lonely Housewife (a charming, funny Christine Bullen), the Milk Man, The Girl Next Door, and The Lumberjack.  Two police officers investigating the murder speak robotically, facing out into the audience as though reading from cue cards.  All the bad acting, strange dialogue and ludicrous plotlines that pornographic films are notorious for are on display here, except without the promised money shot to look forward to. 

The Milk Man turns up dead after a spontaneous threesome with The Lonely Housewife and The Girl Next Door.  The Lonely Housewife is questioned, and we find that she’s been making movies for some time with The Milk Man.  Somewhere along the way they decided that using cameras to record their “films” was a minor and unnecessary detail in production.  The detectives go on to learn that rather than producing real films, The Milk Man had simply been staging fetish sex scenes in random places and calling it a movie. 

Early in the investigation a horse (in bondage-style leather bridle and boxing gloves-cum-hooves) is introduced as a suspect.   It is presumed that the Horse is actually a person who has fetishized the animal to the point of living as a horse, at least in films.  But maybe they meant it to be a real horse.  Why Not?  In fact, that seemed to be a question the playwright must have continually asked himself throughout the creation of his play.  Why don’t we throw in a lumberjack and have him get mustard squirted all over his face.  Why Not?  Why don’t we write in an aerobic dance number with an instructor who’s physically incapable of removing his fuchsia unitard.  Why Not?  Why don’t we have the Milk Man return from the grave with a sausage pizza? Why Not?  Attempted Rape? Why Not? Gratuitous Nudity? Why Not?

As with porn, the plot is not really the point here.   "The Ventriloquist Circle" is an exercise in shock theatre that, at every turn (and lighting change), has its audience cringing at the thought of what could possibly happen next.  It is funny, silly and totally absurd.  Just sit back.  Relax.  Release your inhibitions.  You’re in for a total mind-fisting.

“The Ventriloquist Circle” plays Friday and Saturday nights in January at 9:30 at Dixon Place located at 161A Chrystie St. between Rivington and DeLancey on the Lower East Side.  www.dixonplace.org

A Novel Approach

Jeff, Dude. Man.  What's going on, Buddy? Um, wow. Yeah. Is everything OK?

Dear Lonely Jeff,

I'll talk about something with you, but I'm not going to call you.  Do you realize how crazy I would have to be to call you?  You could be a pervert.  You could be a lunatic.  You could be a tele-marketer.  If you really are lonely and just want to talk, I'd like to offer you some advice.

First of all, put yourself in the reader's shoes.  Would you ever answer this ad?  You come off pretty desperate throwing in that "lonely" in the end.  People like happy, upbeat people.  And generally speaking, desperation is pathetic.  And when you inspire pity in a stranger, you put them ill-at-ease.  This is no way to have people warm to you.

If you're a member of some cult or religion trying to lure misguided and impressionable people into your influence, then shame on you. You disgust me. 

If you're looking for anonymous sex and this is your kinky way of going about it.  Hey, whatever floats your boat.  But I hope you're upfront with anyone who calls you.

And if you're genuinely looking for a friend, it isn't easy here in this city of strangers.  It can get very lonely surrounded by 8 million people who simply do not have the time.  So much for the glamour of anonymity.  I gotta hand it to you though: in this post-chatroom age of modern social-media-communication, you've certainly taken a novel approach to the situation.

Good luck!

Sincerely,
The Urban Boy Scout

Street Rage

Walking is a major means of transportation here in the concrete jungle.  When I first visited New York one of the images that stuck with me was that of hundreds of people, like a flock of migrant birds, crossing the street in a mass diaspora when the walk signal shone.

Masses of people however do not share a flocking bird's sentiment of collaborative conjunction.  New Yorkers do not flock.  They dart--and not collectively.  It's an outright fight getting up the subway stairs, navigating potholed and pockmarked crosswalks, walking with a purpose. No, walking with a vengeance.  Nobody strolls in New York City (except tourists in Times Square and Macy's).

Sometimes I notice myself lapsing out of my usual pleasant, tolerant temperament into this angry bilious person with laser beam focus and no time for bullshit.   Just the other evening I was walking from the subway station to my apartment, and some poor pretty drunk girl positioned herself perfectly in my way and only noticed after I had to stop dead in my tracks.  She looked up at me and cooed a flirty, high-pitched "Oooops" hoping I'd smile at her folly or look back at her with admiring eyes.  Instead, do you know what I did?  I walked around her and stomped off shaking my head at her outrageous behavior.  Not only did I not play along with her game, I didn't even acknowledge she existed.  She got in my way.  How dare she?  And then she wants me to think it's cute?  Bitch!

Too much?  Well, that's my point.  And believe me, tonight I got my comeuppance when some guy called me a "fucking idiot" because I got in his way as I exited a subway train.  I'm sure he's normally a nice fella too.  But there's something about periods of transition: anxiety levels rise, pressure sets in: there is simply no time for passing pleasantries in a rat race.

So if you see me on the street, wave.  Smile.  But by all means, please keep it moving.

The Trauma of Special Occasions

identity concealed to protect the humiliated

Recently a friend of mine bravely decided to throw herself a birthday party.  She spent weeks in preparation, getting just the right outfit, hair, nails, jewelry, even deciding to give the party a theme.
This party was supposed to be the coming together of different entities in her life: roommates, old friends, new friends, co-workers, even her lover--all together under the same roof celebrating the only thing they all had in common: affection for the hostess.

Ambitious? Definitely. Impossible? Maybe. Ill-fated? Absolutely.

Everything began to unravel when, an hour after showtime, one roommate and I were still the only guests who'd arrived.  She was beginning to panic.  I tried to diffuse the scene by plying her with soothing speech and cocktails, but those were only band-aids.  The impending doom lay in the possibility that when her lover arrived, no one was going to be there, and she was afraid she'd be humiliated.  (Also she dribbled vodka down the front of her perfect outfit.)
Finally guests began to pour in. But somehow, they were all from the that section of the guest list that you're only inviting just in case no one else comes.  One of them began to inappropriately monopolize the conversation, at one point even likening sex with an AIDS patient to being as morally bankrupt as sex with one's own mother. Don't ask. The point is, this party was going nowhere fast.
And that's not even the worst of it.  But for the sake of time, space and my friend's pride, I won't go on to mention what else went awry.  The lesson to be learned here is that once you reach a certain age, you realize that birthdays are rarely those magical moments that we as children are led to believe they are supposed to be.
Part of growing up is learning to accept that your birthday is just another day.  So is Thanksgiving after all.  And Christmas for that matter.  Often we tend to attach such expectations and lofty objectives to these "special occasions" that when they turn out to be average days, we end up devastated.
Why do we do it to ourselves?  Because we have ideals and hopes and dreams that life--even if only for a couple days out of the year--can be perfect.  And it's hope that makes us human.
So worry not, dear Reader, if no one comes to your birthday party.  Should your holiday plans collapse this Thanksgiving, if your family is far away, or your traditions due to circumstances are somehow impossible to recreate, be happy that today is, after all, just another day.
But take heart in the fact that tomorrow is too.  And keep trying.

Ambitious? Definitely. Naive? Maybe. Worth it? Absolutely.

Martha Wainwright at City Winery

I didn't want my blog to turn into a place where I simply talk about the shows I see. But I just couldn't leave this one out.  Last night at City Winery, that ethereal pixie Martha Wainwright graced the stage for a beautiful set of music both masterfully played and brilliantly sung.  I have to confess I was not familiar with her music before last night, but believe me: today I'm a bona fide fan.
But first let's talk about the opening act. Nath Ann Carrera was nothing short of a breath of fresh air.  He appeared onstage wearing a very short, plain white dress and a blue turban looking like a cross-dressing amalgam of Nurse Ratched, Norma Desmond and Jackie O.  His guitar playing was simple, his deep baritone not always in tune, but he was fascinating to watch.  He spoke like some observer/activist/monologuist robot gone haywire.  And like Sandra Bernhard, the songs didn't mean much without the banter.  Before singing what he called a "cultish lesbian separatist murder ballad" based on real-life prison interviews with the cellmates of Susan Atkins, a member of the infamous Manson Family, he recited (in character?) the disturbing yet kooky things these women had said.  Later, before singing one of her songs, he called Karen Carpenter one of the first people "to be thrown under the bus by gender fundamentalism."  He ended his short set with--of all things--Hank Williams's "On the Banks of the Old Ponchartrain."  I'm sorry I don't have any pictures of Nath Ann for you; I was simply too transfixed by his performance to bother.
And then came Martha.  She casually strolled out on stage to everyone's surprise and greeted us as though we were her old pals.  She's funny.  She joked about how expensive City Winery is by congratulating the audience for "making it to TriBeCa," though it is actually in the heart of SoHo.  She is also an impressive guitarist, tuning the thing by ear between songs while talking to the audience and being cute & charming. I was just waiting for her to start hopping on one foot to show us what a real multi-tasking performer she is.

But that voice! Ah, it was at once gruff and angelic. She sounds like Kate Bush and Jewel wrestling Marianne Faithfull to the ground while PJ Harey cheers from the sideline: just incredible.
She sang some of her old songs and some new ones, covered a handful of Kate McGarrigle (her mother) songs, and even sang (in French of course) several Edith Piaf songs (video coming soon).  Above, watch and listen as she sings her own "Four Black Sheep."
Wainwright invited her (other gender-bending) friend Justin Vivian Bond on stage to cover Melanie's "Leftover Wine," a torch song v sang with voice throaty and visceral (that wasn't a typo: "v" is Justin's preferred gender-free pronoun). Turns out, Bond is a fixture of New York's avant-garde scene and currently has an art exhibition called Fall of the House of Whimsy at Participant, Inc., a gallery on Houston between Avenues A & B.
I'll be following the careers of all three of last night's performers. And I recommend you do the same.  Oh, and City Winery is pretty damn cool too.  But Martha was right: it is expensive.