A Little Too Unusual

The Unusual Suspects is a murder mystery musical comedy about a group of clinically insane people having a party at a remote mansion. When one of their own is brutally killed, it’s up to two police investigators to discover who’s the culprit, if they can get past each guest’s wacky neuroses. The partygoers include an egomaniacal kleptomaniac, a sexy amnesiac, an irascible blind man, a mute piano player, a drag queen who doesn’t know he’s a man, and said drag queen’s gloved arm, which has a mind and voice of its own. The show tries to make itself as outlandish as possible, often to the point where it doesn’t make much sense. The story isn’t nearly as enjoyable as it should be. Rather than forming genuinely amusing situations and letting his characters play, writer Derek Sonderfan consistently distrusts his creations, piling on non sequitur after non sequitur until things become unfunny.

Then there’s the uncomfortable problem of the musical numbers. An energetic cast full of personality sings well throughout the show. Bryan Fenkart stands out as the ladies man of the party, and gets a great number called “Save the Monkeys” about halfway through. But the show doesn’t feel like a musical. When the first song happens some ten minutes in, it comes by surprise. The music isn’t memorable enough to warrant a full score. The sung sequences are not integral enough to the storyline. They’re more like amusing novelty bits stuck in for comic effect.

The show doesn’t even list its songs in the program. Also missing from the program is the fight choreographer. Whoever was behind what was surely one of the most awesome fights in Fringe Festival history deserves a shout out. Where’s the recognition? At least Jessica Parks gets credit for her scene design, which includes inflatable furniture.

The Unusual Suspects also takes far too long to end. There’s an intermission that isn’t particularly needed, and a title closing number at the end that feels tacked on. The Rashomon-like recounting of what happened from each character’s perspective becomes repetitive. Problems aside, the show is a lot of fun. It’s just a shame that the acting and creating talent wasn’t focused on a piece trying so hard to be quirky that it collapses in on itself.

Deciphering The Underworld

Deliberate Motion uses video, choreography, music, text, and three performers to present what they call ‘a theatrical event.’ As you enter the space, there is video playing of an urban landscape in a thunderstorm. When a performer enters the stage, he offers the day’s lesson: ‘the earth is not a chocolate cherry.’ Shortly after, another performer sings a love song. These disparate elements, among others, held my attention at first as I hoped they would cohere to reveal a comprehensible idea. As a lover of non-linear theater, I look forward to learning how to watch a piece as it unfolds before me. Unfortunately, here, I could not decipher who the characters were (they are never identified) and I did not know where the story was taking place. In this case, these points feel like essential grounding information that would allow me to fully enjoy Better This Way. While the structure of the piece is confusing, the artists create interesting stage pictures. One of the cleverest elements is the splitting of one female character performed simultaneously by two actresses - one actress is the voice while the other is the body. Another interesting moment is when the male character creates a tape hexagon on the floor around her. Simultaneously, the third performer is building a chaotic tape sculpture on the other side of the stage, offering a visual juxtaposition that can easily be imbued with metaphors by the audience. The creative exploration that resulted in these and similar discoveries are the strongest elements of the piece.

The video that served as a backdrop for the piece is distracting. The footage consists of the female performers wandering through a wasteland. It is unclear to me how the video moves the piece forward. Similarly, the three performers of the piece did not seem strongly rooted in intention. They appeared to exist in a non-specific void, moving very slowly and carefully, without action or purpose.

The intention of the artists, as stated on their website, is to re-imagine the Persephone myth emphasizing the choices and struggles she faces while suspended between two worlds. I learned that the three actors were portraying Hades and Persephone and that the play was taking place in a liminal space between Earth and the underworld. Unfortunately, I could not make sense of the text as it was presented.

In their attempt to create an experience in which we contemplate love, identity and choice, Deliberate Motion leaves the audience without an entry point into their world, leaving us with too many basic questions.

Note: This production is a part of the 2007 NYC International Fringe Festival.

Japanese Cool

A ninja is defined in Japanese as “one who utilizes clandestine skills.” Hip hop is defined in America as a “popular urban youth culture.” Somewhere in the unlikely intersection of these, between Japanese tradition and American commercialism, lies Orientarhythm, perhaps the most exciting and entertaining blended theater to hit the melting pot of New York City. Martial art fuses with performing art. Performed at Our Lady of Pompei Demo Hall on August 14, the production is impossible to define as just one form of entertainment. Is it dance? Is it martial arts? Is it mime? Is it a drum concert? The answer is all of the above.

The distinguishing factor of the troupe’s style, created in 1999, is their use of nunchakus, the weapon often seen in clichéd Jackie Chan films. They are made of 2 foot-long wooden sticks linked by a chain. Here they are used not only for defensive purposes but as complementary props, a technique that will be taught at a free workshop next week (Monday, August 20th, 10am at Peridance Center).

Their rapid movement is exhilarating, and only gets better when the lights vanish and the nunchakus glow in the dark. The firework shapes are reminiscent of those a child makes with a glow stick on the 4th of July.

This is not the only nod to American culture. To begin this scene the music sings, “May the force be with you,” à la Star Wars. Numerous points during the dance fights turn into “slow motion” with a green background, a reference to The Matrix. In between oriental hymns, a familiar Gwen Stefani song blares about Harajuku Girls.

Though the majority of costumes reflect conventional Japanese robes or marital arts uniforms, in the piece titled "Mirror" the dancer and his supposed mirror image (another dancer) perform intricate hip hop steps while sporting bright Adidas jackets. This serves not only to demonstrate another American influence but to enhance the believability of the mirrored image. Her jacket reads "Adidas" backwards. This reflection creates a subtle but effective touch.

The only downside to this culture-infused show is that it strongly plays upon overused stereotypes, such as harajuku girls and geishas. To this point, Asians have remained an ignored minority in the realm of American theater. With minimal representation it seems a shame to use archetypical suggestions to this extent, though the reasons are clear. Perhaps any representation is better than none at all (think blackface exploitation in the vaudeville and minstrel shows of the 1920s and 30s).

Still, though, Orientarhythm, stays true to its goal of presenting “Japanese cool.” It may be that with this energetic show the Asian culture will make a permanent mark on American theater.

For Whom the Bell Tolls: Dressing Miss Julie Gender Bends

On August 14, I headed downtown to the Lower East Side to catch a performance of Dressing Miss Julie, a gender-bending re-telling of August Strindberg’s classic play. Without knowing the original text, it took me until about halfway through the performance to figure out exactly what was going on. While the confusion was a little daunting and prevented me from thoroughly enjoying the piece, it definitely piqued my interest in reading Strindberg’s play. After absorbing the original, everything that Dressing Miss Julie covered made perfect sense and I would recommend any other potential audiences familiarize themselves with the original text as well. In Strindberg’s Miss Julie the daughter of a Count has a Midsummer Night tryst with a servant, thus throwing off the balance of the class system in the house. Raised by her father to maintain her feminine place in society and influenced by her mother to learn and employ traditions that are typically male, Miss Julie is confused by where her gender places her in this power struggle. Jean, the saucy servant with whom she shares her indiscretion, relishes this new sense of power over Miss Julie and uses it to nurture his more delicate sensibilities, thus tarnscending his traditional gender role in society as well. When these two come together, a full on battle of the sexes ensues to a dramatic and tragic conclusion.

While the sexuality and gender biases are more subtle in Strindberg’s play, the writers/actors Anna Kull and Justin Perkins put it right out in front of you. At the front of the house are positioned two large bells (a nod to how Jean is constantly plagued by the bell summoning him to his master) that the audience is encouraged to ring. Every time the bells are rung, the actors switch roles, costumes and genders. Removing the clothing that represents not only their genders but their places in society (hers being an upper class gown and his being a servant’s uniform) clearly helps to illustrate how easily this tryst makes it to strip down these costumes and change the power struggle. The message Dressing Miss Julie strives (and succeeds) in getting across is that social mores about class and gender are nothing more than costumes that can be removed with a flick of a zipper. Funny and fast-paced, Dressing Miss Julie is an interesting contemporary twist on a classic.

On Fire

If it wasn't a true story, I wouldn't have believed it. Asking for It was written and performed by stage and screen veteran Joanna Rush, whose real-life acting credits range from the Westside Theater's Daughters with Marisa Tomei to the 1970s NBC movie The Killing Affair, with O.J. Simpson. The character she portrays in this one-woman show at the New York International Fringe Festival has a similar bio but a different name.

The show is about Bernadette O'Connell, an Irish-Catholic woman with a head of unruly red hair to match her fiery personality. Has Rush changed the name to separate herself from a deeply personal tale, or to give herself creative license to take a few liberties? One would hope for the latter, because O'Connell's misfortune with men is almost too bad to be believed.

She arrives in New York in her late teens, naïve and starry-eyed eager for her big break. One fateful day she accepts a late-night ride with a man named Brooklyn Bobby, who promises to help her career. When a young girl dressed provocatively enough to attract the attention of casting agents goes off with a man named Brooklyn Bobby, the night seems destined to end for the worse, and when it does, the police tell her she was "asking for it."

Rush is a bottle of raw emotion just waiting to erupt, but we do not get a sense that she is close to this material until the very end, when we witness an explosion of anger so intense and soul-cleansing that she can scarcely get back into character without clutching a Kleenex. This is the first real sign that the lines are more than just plot for the person reciting them.

In the beginning, the darkest moments of O'Connell's life are masked with comedy. Initially, Rush encourages us to laugh at her character's hardships, though this laughter always feels more designed to lighten the tension than tickle the funny bone.

We watch O'Connell's tumultuous evolution from eager young actress to desperate burlesque dancer, never sure where her winding path will take her next. She is often in the wrong place at the wrong time and a virtual magnet for crime. There are moments in her life that are nothing short of harrowing, and if Rush's life truly overlaps with the character she has created, it is a wonder she is able to tell this story at all.

Viva La Revolution!

Until they succeed, revolutionaries are often dismissed as unrealistic dreamers. So it’s appropriate that Adam Mervis’ terrific new play, The Revolutionaries, is full of people’s descriptions of their dreams, both the sleep kind and the aspirational kind. But unlike many plays that use dreams as a device, Mervis’ smart, funny script never takes the easy route. And even when they’re talking about these intangibles, the actors are so strong in their roles that the audience readily goes along with them. The engaging first-level plot of The Revolutionaries tracks what happens when two childhood friends get into the cutthroat energy business. One of them, Chevy, has invented solar panels that are inexpensive but highly efficient and will allow users to go off the power grid. Given a wonderfully apt Peter Pan-like boyishness by Robert Yang, Chevy seems naïve and idealistic with his wild dreams of changing the world and giving power to the people. By contrast, Frank acts the part of the hard-nosed, savvy businessman who builds the new power company with money from his own trust and know-how from his prior career on Wall Street. Brought to intense, jumpy life by Mervis, Frank brims with big plans that he refuses to see thwarted by consideration for others. As a result, his relationship with his girlfriend Jean (the excellent Desirée Matthews) deteriorates rapidly, since getting the company off the ground is more difficult than he anticipated and she misses the life they left behind in New York.

Once the little company’s fortunes do turn for the better, it’s not long before the “practical” Frank begins to seem out of touch, drunk on power and endlessly spouting aphorisms about leadership. And the sweetness of success lasts for just a short time: part of what makes The Revolutionaries so propulsive and entertaining is Mervis’ ability to evoke the non-stop, roller coaster feel of working in a start-up. The first act is nearly perfect in terms of pace and suspense leading up to the intermission. The second act is slightly weighed down with a few too many subplots, but the writing doesn’t lose its edge and the actors delve more deeply into their characters.

The Revolutionaries pulls viewers in quickly and keeps them captivated throughout, wondering what will happen next. The cast presents the combination of straightforward interpersonal dramas and serious thought nearly seamlessly under Megan Marod's intelligent direction. It is a complete package of a quality unusual for the Fringe.

All Aboard the Derelict Trail

The See You Next Tuesday Company's production of Bukowsical! opens with the lines "“What’s the feeling you get when you’re down on your luck/And you’re too drunk to fuck?” and doesn't look back from there. On our musical journey we encounter singing booze bottles, flung fetuses, and soiled seductresses galore. If you're faint of heart, this may not be your cup of J&B. But if you've got a little Bukowski in you (and the show maintains that "there's a little Bukowski in all of us"), this is the venue for you. The show is framed as a backer's audition for a fictional theatre company, which is trying to raise money to mount a show about Bukowski's life. To give the backers a taste of what the production has in store, they take us down the "derelict trail" of Bukowski's life. We start with Bukowski as a child, where he is beaten by his fellow classmates to the tune of "Art is Pain." In "Writing Lesson" the ghosts of Faulkner, Plath, Burroughs and Tennessee Williams advise him to "get down, get dark, get dirty," and in "Through a Glass, Barfly" Mickey Rourke and Sean Penn battle it out for the honor of playing Bukowski on film.

Although the framing mechanism quickly breaks down (is the audience supposed to donate money?), you're so caught up in the silliness that you don't really notice. The Bukowsical! Band, consisting of Gary Stockdale, Jon Burr, Robby Kirshoff and Ed Caccavale, do an excellent job, and the lyrics of Gary Stockdale and Spencer Green are right on track. A couple of sour notes - the hackneyed moral outrage of a bishop, and a completely out of place ballad by Buk's ex - do little to take away from the overall value of the production.

Performances are steady all around, with Marc Cardiff excelling in his role as the Founder of the fictional theater company, and Brad Blaisdell doing his blinking and balderdashed best as Charles "Buk" Bukowski.

One of the biggest laughs comes when a lawyer from the firm of Ernst, Williams and Weinstein arrives to put a halt to the production. (Bukowski's widow, did in fact, try to stop the show.) The lawyer tells them that as, a New York Jew, she knows musical theatre, and this company's never making it to Broadway. That remains to be seen. In the meantime, it's all aboard the derelict trail.

The Monkey Goes Moo

The Monkey Moo has many things going for it. It features some intricate puppetry work, an equally expressive human lead, and a fantastic musical score. Whether these elements combine into a cohesive, affecting experience is another matter. Only after reading the plot summary at the bottom of the first page of the program do story intricacies reveal themselves. Details are lost in the experience itself, leading this nearly wordless piece to become more of an abstract diversion than the heart-pounding adventure tale promised by the description. As a result, it’s entertaining to watch but doesn’t leave much of an impression the next day. Moo is a mischievous monkey in 1920s Shanghai. Forced into vaudeville because of financial woes, he meets a beautiful girl who works at the local teahouse and falls in love. Things go wrong when the girl’s pimp discovers their relationship. An epic battle ensues.

The show sports some exciting production elements in its threadbare set. Taking the house made of string conceit of recent Off-Broadway hit Eurydice one step further, the entire set is made of a long rope. The rope morphs into various shapes that suggest locations and objects. The effect is quite remarkable, particularly in a scene where Moo runs through the streets looking for his love.

Yoko Myoi as Moo is a gifted physical comedian with a huge face that perfectly suits her character. The other two onstage performers are the puppeteers Andrei Drooz and Karen Elizaga, who navigate the stage on tiny moving stools. No detail is left unconsidered. Drooz and Elizaga’s real hands extrude just far enough out of their robes to create their tiny puppet’s appendages. When the pimp puppet drinks, he flails about the stage, every limb wildly out of control. The puppeteers blend seamlessly with Myoi. The climatic human vs. puppet fight is probably the production’s most exciting moment.

Zelda Pinwheel, a “melodic noise trio” from New Jersey and Philadelphia, accompanies the action. Group members James Dellatacoma, Ralph Gould, and Stephen Quaranta play a huge variety of instruments, real and electronic, to augment proceedings. Their score is at once sparse and sad, and in another moment throbbing, tribal, and unpredictable. Their work helps the production to become, if not a full success, then at least one which tickles the audience’s senses.

Hamlet--A Send Up

Hamlet — A Stand-up Comedy is, as its name suggests, irreverent and silly. Performed by just one actor for the entire one hour and 40 minute performance, Hamlet — A Stand-up Comedy is quite a send up of the most famous play ever written. Hamlet's father, for instance, becomes a fly while relating to his son the horrors of his death. The opening scene involves a midget wearing a jester's cap. And the play is laced with jokes about the performance itself and figures like Bill Clinton. The play has real potential to be a very funny performance. Unfortunately, Hamlet — A Stand-up Comedy doesn't quite live up to its potential. Although the actor, Roger Westberg, who plays not just Hamlet, but every single role in the play, is strong enough to pull off all of the parts, the fact that he is trying to play so many characters becomes, at times, confusing. The fact that he also mimes the entire play is equally troublesome, all the more so since the Ghost is not normally performed as a fly, and a midget (or an actor playing as a midget) does not normally begin Shakespeare's greatest tragedy. Despite these problems, Hamlet — A Stand-up Comedy, has moments of fun and humor and originality, and watching Westberg perform without relief for such a long time is, in and of itself, a fete to watch. This production is very much in the spirit of the Fringe Festival, and it was exciting to see a play, performed at a late hour on a Tuesday night by a single actor from Sweden, so well-attended. Watching Hamlet — A Stand-up Comedy gives hope that theatre and experimentation in the theatre are still alive and well.

Hurricane Party

It starts and ends with a party. The pretentious attitude of the theater is not there. Instead the people in the room, on stage and off, are sharing a warm, though at times difficult, experience. Sharing, such a rare value in the theater, is what this gem of a play is about. Sharing the experiences of our compatriots down south who suffered the devastation of Katrina and its aftermath, and the life embracing wisdom they gained by it. Through a collaborative process, which included over forty Louisiana artists as well as the personal stories of many other Katrina survivors, Sustained Winds freely maneuvers between realistic scenes, dance, live video, poetry and music to tell the tale of a city bombarded by nature and abandoned by the state. Through the personal lens the wider political picture is revealed as the piece unfolds. A man hears the voice of New Orleans mayor Roy Nagin ordering the population to evacuate, but he simply can not spare the extra few hundred dollars he would have to spend on leaving. The audience sits with him through the storm as a group of people would sit through a New Orleans hurricane party, where people join together to support each other into the night.

But the storm itself is just the first chapter of this revelatory mythical saga. As the insurance dealer tells a man whose home is still broken down eight months after the disaster (fine actor/musician Andy Cornett), the storm is only partly to blame. This, the audience learns through comedy as the people of New Orleans learned through tragedy, is the truth about the entire Katrina picture. In one of the toughest moments of the evening, actor Katie Keator makes use of her explosively honest acting talent to portray a woman driven to rage by watching private militias lead a small group of rich affiliates out of New Orleans. ‘When did this happen,’ she’s asked by a news reporter (the excellent Lian Cheramie). ‘Several days before FEMA showed up.’ And the audience along with the reporter can now see clearly the third world that was taking place within the US.

In the political heart of the play a drunk Ms. USA is showered with words describing her true nature, as experienced by this ensemble of Americans: “corruption” “pollution” “nepotism” “cronyism.” ‘Let’s face it,’ say the chorus of dancing women to the audience, ‘this is what it is.’

However, what is most remarkable about this show, and by extension the process of mourning and rebirth of the people of Louisiana, is its ability to move beyond the negative into a dance of self-exploration in the face of destruction. Sustained Winds is a moving and fun theater experience that should be shared by people all over the country, expertly crafted by director Amy Waguespack and her gifted group of multi-disciplined, heart-felt artists.

A January to Remember

The Challenger disaster, the Superbowl, and the dissolution of Nick's parents' marriage intertwine in Timothy Mansfield's explosive and relentless drama, January 1986, a fascinating if slightly problematic memory play that warns of the danger of memory. As the play unfolds, it becomes clearer not only how mixed-up Nick's memories are but why Nick is retreating into this one. Mansfield has a good ear for language, and lines linger long after they are spoken. All three actors deliver impressive performances. Ian McWethy as Nick manages the difficult task of portraying both a man of 30 and a child of nine in the same scene without resorting to kid cliches. Jona Tuck as Nick's frequently beaten mom inspires compassion without victimizing her character, and Adam Nowack creates a father who is both scarily violent and sympathetic.

The set, a small table, chairs and counter in the background and a couch, table, and TV set in the foreground, perfectly evokes a small suburban house with just the right amount of detail to make it personal.

The play shifts back and forth between the imagined past and an imagined present where Nick, now 30, struggles to understand his memories through fictional conversations with his parents and flights of fancy. The boundary between these time spaces is thin, however, and while this method of storytelling is fresh and inventive, it can often disorient the audience, as it is hard to tell where the characters are.

Since this is a memory play, many scenes deal in reconstructing the way life was--where dad was sitting as he watched the Superbowl, where mom and dad made scuff marks on the floor--but sometimes the lines that begin with "I remember" become too numerous, and the scenes become bogged down with description. Michael Kimmel's inventive direction makes these scenes interesting to watch, as the characters move seamlessly from stationary positions to acting out a memory and then back again, but there needs to be more of a balance between the recounting scenes and the scenes of immediate action.

A captivating story, great dialogue, and exceptional acting lift January 1986 above its minor problems. Mansfield is definitely a playwright to watch.

Note: This production is part of the 2007 NYC International Fringe Festival.

Cut It/Cure It

The Our Lady of Pompeii Church’s Demo Hall is the fringiest of Fringe venues. Sunlight streams in from long neglected gray windows, icicle lights and fake ivy from some long abandoned post-service reception droop gloomily across the room, vending machines hum in the corner, and the seats are all on one level. It makes sense that the hall is home to Cancer! The Musical, the kind of boldly titled but low on quality show audiences have come to expect from the festival. The surprise is that, against all odds, Cancer! is actually pretty good. Who’d have guessed it?

Our story begins with a sextet of rats in a testing lab, each hoping that they’ll be the one to nobly die and cure cancer. One rodent gets his wish. The lucky scientist behind the discovery is Dr. Bernard Bernard, who hopes his awesome innovation will finally get him laid. However, it isn’t long before sinister insurance and pharmaceutical corporations are hunting for Bernard, forcing him to go into hiding.

The show does a nice job of combining its many slapstick gags and bad puns with the serious side of its title disease. The balance is impressive, and helped greatly by Topher Owen as Dr. Harris and Inga Wilson as Annie, the play’s young lovers. Dr. Harris is the show’s emotional core, but Owen is equally adept at physical comedy. Owen and Dustin Gardner as Dr. Bernard have a fantastic number halfway through the first act called “Cut It/Cure It” that’s worth the $15 alone. The remaining actors also drive the script forward with their energy and commitment. The most exciting numbers are the ones where everyone is onstage.

Despite being a lot of fun and having varying musical styles, it seems like the Fringe is the show’s current final destination. Work needs to be done if this wants to become a full-fledged evening out.

Strengthening the book would be the place to start. The show has an unnecessary intermission that kills momentum. Too much time is spent with Mr. Murphy, a mildly amusing side character. Sometimes scenes go on for too long. In particular, an extended early exchange between the show’s two female characters created a murmur in the audience over whether someone had missed an entrance. With these and similar improvements, the show has a shot at the mainstream.

Yee of Little (Then Lots of) Faith: Byron Yee Denies and Discovers his Heritage in Paper Son

Byron Yee’s one-man show Paper Son opened August 13. For an hour and a half, Yee takes the audience on a funny yet touching journey. From his childhood as an outcast in Oklahoma, to his decision to move to San Francisco to become a stand-up comedian, to his quest to discover how his family came to America, Yee weaves his stories together with a delightfully entertaining and moving narrative thread. The show opens with Yee recreating an audition for a role in a film in which he would have to play a stereotypical Chinese restaurant owner, Pidgin-English and all. Yee reveals that he does not know how to do a Chinese accent, nor does he wish to learn. This audition experience triggers a desire in Yee to seek out his Chinese heritage and ask questions of his parents and family that he never had any previous interest in asking. The show is divided into five different segments, opening with the audition that beautifully lays the foundation for the rest of the show. Throughout the show, the audience is introduced to an endearing cast of characters while accompanying Yee on his sojourn. Most effective is a meeting Yee has with a tour guide at San Francisco Bay’s Angel Island (the West Coast equivalent of Ellis Island, where Chinese immigrants were interrogated and forced to stay until they were cleared for citizenship). The tour guide tells Yee the fable of how the rat and the cat became enemies, which becomes a poignant metaphor for the Chinese people’s plight in their new homeland.

Yee, who is currently a successful Los Angeles based actor and comedian, presents a fantastic performance, portraying every character from clueless Hollywood casting directors to his parents with humor, sympathy and pathos. Paper Son strives to emphasize that no matter how a person may deny his own past, it is always a part of him. Deeply entertaining and informative, is a delightfully moving lesson that any audience should be grateful to learn.

Children's Hour

As the New York International Fringe Festival has grown, so have the ambitions of the productions that are a part of it. The "Urinetown effect" (which may be too antiquated a reference for New York newbies) has begat shows with high-profile actors, writers, and directors; strong production values; and serious artistic goals. Whatever happened to the kooky downtown shows of old? Some of that scrappy aesthetic is still kicking about in Princess Sunshine's Bitter Pill of Truth Funhouse. A nouvelle vaudeville for the snark set, this adorable confection features a small, talented cast of performers who sing, mug, and clown their way into audience members' hearts.

The driving creative force behind this piece is Princess Sunshine herself, played by Juliet Jeske. She is responsible for the show's script, songs, costumes, backdrop, and spark. While it's clear that she could put on great shows for kids—and, according to the program, does so as her day job—her wicked sense of humor and world-weary act make her a hit with adults as well. She's also got a knockout belt/legit voice, and can play a mean accordion and ukulele.

Jeske is joined onstage by her husband Joel, a clown by trade who is equally adept at verbal and physical comedy. His creepy Uncle Fun and intense Science Guy provide a little Borscht Belt and Bible Belt humor, respectively. Rounding out the ensemble is Brenda Jean Foley, possessor of a beautiful voice that harmonizes well with Jeske's, and Timothy James O'Brien, who plays a delightfully sulky Upper East Side teenage girl.

Together they make music, make jokes, and do a little puppeteering. (The hand puppets, created by Joel Jeske, are whimsical and backed up by great vocal work, though if they were equipped with rods for arm movement they would be even more appealing.) There are morals aplenty, but certainly not the kinds you get from Mister Rogers. If childish fun (with a devilish spin) is your cup of Fringe tea, why not have a drink with Princess Sunshine?

Three's a Crowd

...Double Vision is a work that is certainly hard to characterize. Part slapstick comedy, part naughty romance, part heavy drama, Barbara Blumenthal-Ehrlich's play is a funny, and ultimately hard-hitting, show about the ways men go about sabotaging their most important relationships. Presented at the New York International Fringe Festival and directed by Ari Laura Kreith, Vision focuses on three roommates with women problems. The biggest problem is Dave's (Shane Jacobsen): he keeps pushing away the women in his life. Mark (Quinn Mattfeld), meanwhile, gets involved only with married women to whom he never needs to fully commit. They could both learn a lesson from their other roommate, the oversexed, 50-something Ben (Chris McCann).

No single member of this mini-fraternity emerges as the play's protagonist; they get equal time making questionable choices. Dave, for example, refuses to ask his girlfriend, Mary (Rebecca Henderson), to turn down a job offer and stay in New York. Ben, who at first seems smitten with his significantly younger girlfriend, suddenly falls for—and woos—the nurse who lives nearby. But when Mark eventually decides to steal Mary, the audience should question his motivation. How could he be so cruel to his roommate? And, more important, why?

Blumenthal-Ehrlich provides a solid premise but never quite gets around to answering these questions. Nonetheless, Kreith has directed some solid performances. Henderson, McCann, and Mattfeld are all quite credible in their roles, but Vision is really Jacobsen's show to rule, and he does so in a committed, manic performance that, coming so soon after his comic turn in I'm in Love With Your Wife, demonstrates a great deal of range. He shows that Dave has a lot more brimming underneath the surface than one might expect. I just wish Blumenthal-Ehrlich had spent more time explaining what lit the fire in the first place.

Good, Wholesome Entertainment?

We all know milk does a body good, but does a play about four confused and horny people make for wholesome entertainment? Does the Body Good tracks the stories of two seemingly unrelated couples. We start with a down-on-his-luck milkman. On his first day at the job, a housewife plants a big, calcium-fortified kiss on him. The majesty of this kiss is such that it prompts him to break up with his fiancée, in the hopes that he and the housewife (whose name he doesn't even know) can someday be together.

Meanwhile, another story unfolds on the other side of the stage. Mr. Harrison is a junior high school teacher locked in an unhappy marriage. He is having an affair with a young, but precocious student. When he refuses to declare his love for her, she threatens to tell everyone about the affair.

For a performance like this to be successful, each half of the story has to carry equal weight. Unfortunately, this is not the case. The milkman story, which should be charged with erotic tension, falls flat. Olivia Henderson gives a shiftless performance as the housewife and you never quite buy the milkman's, played by Vince Eisenson, longing for her.

Fortunately, the other half of the play features a pair of fine performances. Ros Schwartz, who plays Quinnie, the lusty and precocious student, does a great job in a difficult role. You even believe her when she says things like, "I love your cute masculine whisper." Patrick Link, who also wrote and produced the play, is impressive as a teacher lost in lust in confusion, wondering whether his uninspiring marriage is worth saving.

It was Link's goal "to present four dangerously lost characters as they make the most basic possible decisions about what to do with their lives." Unfortunately, a sense of danger only permeates half the performance. In the other half, once the novelty of the kiss wears off, we're left with nothing but a milk mustache.

Heartland Song

Bizarre antics saturate the New York International Fringe Festival, but one particularly brazen act will likely perplex and intrigue New Yorkers more than any nudity or profanity. Feast your eyes, dear cosmopolitan readers, on the simple joys of hay baling. Direct from the heartland, Farmer Song: The Musical is a charming, down-home venture set in Iowa and delivered by an authentic Iowan cast, some of whom, according to the program, are or have been farmers. Although it suffers from sluggish direction and the acting restraints of many of its cast members, Farm Song offers an important message cushioned by an endearing love story.

As explained in the program, the "farm crisis" swept the Midwest in the 1980s. Interest rates soared, land values dropped, and the resulting debt left many farmers struggling to get by. The show opens with the auction of Frank and Ruth Whitby's farm property. Despite the meager odds, their daughter Becky and her husband Carl decide to make their future in farming, and the musical chronicles their attempts to make a living.

Supported by a thumping three-piece band (fiddle, bass, and guitar), Joe Hynek's pleasant score—a blend of bluegrass, country, and folk—conjures up dusty roads and rusty sunsets. His lyrics are sometimes awkwardly phrased ("I wish that the wealth in our country was more spread across"), but certain songs, like the yearning ballad "Wild Rose," leave you wanting more.

The production plods along steadily in want of more focused direction. Conversations often meander and trail off inexplicably, and sharp attention to the show's central conflicts would certainly pep up its book. Stronger direction would also benefit the cast members, who—while earnest and plucky—turn in extremely uneven performances. The dissonant acting styles veer from naturalistic to presentational to completely bombastic. Still, Hynek and Amy Burgmaier (as Becky) generate sweet chemistry as the young couple. And Joel Perkins, the banker, gives a thrilling performance of the bluesy "Honest, Stubborn, and Simple," a melancholy ode to hardworking farmers. Perkins has such a genuine presence and lovely, easy voice that I found myself wishing for more verses.

If its melodramatic tangles are often laughable, the crucial subject matter that Farmer Song addresses is certainly not. Kudos to this hard-working troupe for trucking in to give New Yorkers a taste of something more wholesome and no less incisive than the usual artsy offerings. The Fringe is all about eclecticism and daring, and Pumptown Productions is working to redefine its borders on a new frontier.

The Winter's Tale: A Musical Miss

The Winter’s Tale, like many of Shakespeare’s plays, has its share of problems, not the least of which are the time and tone gaps between Acts One and Two. Generally, owing to Shakespeare’s venerable verse (not to mention the sheer reverence for his name), these are problems that can be overcome in production. But wipe away the verse and add music and The Winter’s Tale Project, a musical import from Edmonton, Canada to this year’s NY Fringe Festival, has to work extra hard to do what Shakespeare could accomplish with the flick of a quill. Unfortunately, this production is not up to the challenge. There is nothing inherently wrong with making a musical out of one of Shakespeare’s timeless stories (West Side Story, anyone?). But it isn’t foolproof either and The Winter’s Tale Project makes for a widely uneven production with a handful of foolish choices.

For example, it is not unamusing to watch King Leontes’ irrational jealousy overtake him so suddenly in the first act. What is upsetting, at least in Shakespeare’s original, is the vehemence with which he feels the need to take revenge on his supposedly traitorous wife. But The Winter’s Tale Project is mired in unnecessarily exaggerated melodrama and leaves no room for laughs in its first act (the show is intermissionless, which is all the better as it can be assumed that a good portion of the audience would leave halfway through if one existed). Conversely, the show pleads for more melodrama in the second half.

After a full scene and a would-be In One musical number (if there were a curtain to bring in or set to change) about that famed stage direction “Exit, pursued by a bear,” the audience finds themselves in Act Two: rural Bohemia. The play is abruptly awash with airy, comedic situations that The Winter’s Tale Project handles with a less-than-deft, but largely enjoyable, ease.

“Piggy in the Middle,” a song written to elicit amusement, isn’t nearly as successful as David Demato, whose Clown is pitch-perfect.

Sadly, by the end of the show the overwrought sincerity of Act One has returned. Furthermore, the last hope for redemption is washed away as The Winter’s Tale Project eliminates nearly all ambiguity about what is, arguably, the greatest mystery in Shakespeare’s play.

In case it isn’t already evident, The Winter’s Tale Project is not a show for Shakespeare purists, nor is it a show for those lacking saintly patience. The production does get better throughout its nearly two-hour run, but the payoffs aren’t worth the wait.

Fictional Authenticity

In Mary Brigit Poppleton is Writing a Memoir, an energetic new play by Madeline Walter, the title character, played by a vivacious Allison Altman, decides to fake teenage pregnancy as fodder for a memoir and as her opportunity to burst free from a mundane world. As long as her ruse holds up, so does the play. Under the nimble direction of Heidi Handelsman, the first act bounces along as Mary Brigit undertakes her mission: fake a pregnancy, gain her family's attention, and write a bestseller. The ensemble delivers stylized performances in keeping with Heather Cohn's set, which uses a series of candy-colored tables on wheels to form everything from school desks to a dining room table. Mary Brigit occasionally reads aloud from her memoir; its arch language contrasts with the play's pop-cultural sensibility and lends insight into her desire to be part of a grandiose world.

Handelsman keeps the material light and the pace up, never overemphasizing Mary Brigit's rhetorical questions ("Am I pregnant...Does it matter?") and providing space for the audience to recognize the ridiculousness of the situation. Her father's rapid succession of clichéd reactions ("Congratulations! -- I'll beat you! -- I'll beat him!") embodies the play's irreverent questioning of authenticity.

The second act sends Mary Brigit from her hometown in Ohio to Fire Island, New York. There, she falls in with teenagers who teach her to abandon her fantasy life. It's exactly what the play does not need.

Once Mary Brigit gives up the pregnancy hoax, the play falls apart. The first act's colorful tables give way to barebones realism as Mary Brigit learns to become one of the gang. By the time her new friends let her know that she need not join them in smoking pot and gleefully suggest they all get some candy and Coca-Cola, Mary Brigit Poppleton is Writing a Memoir has become the after-school special that the first act sends up.

In the play's press materials, Walter says she wrote the play in part to create a strong female character, but the second act has Mary Brigit join a history of female characters who require a charismatic, grounded man to rescue them from their own neuroses. That's a shame because Mary Brigit's quirkiness is the source of her charm.

NOTE: This play appears as part of the 2007 New York International Fringe Festival

All Aboard? Almost There, but Not Quite

The first thing that comes to mind at the opening of All Aboard, presented by the Armstrong/Bergeron Dance Company as a “multi-media dance work based on trains,” is an old work that led audiences to run out of the theater screaming. With a beep of a horn in darkness followed by an oversized film of a subway heading towards the audience, the similarity is strong between this scene at the Linhart Theatre at 440 Studios and the experience audiences had in 1895 while watching one of the earliest moving films, L’Arrivée d'un train à La Ciotat by the Lumiere brothers. Being unfamiliar with the medium of film, audiences were reported to be terrified of the looming locomotive.

Like the Lumiere brothers, co-artistic directors Carisa Armstrong and Christine Bergeron are innovators of their field, challenging the conventions of modern dance by using multimedia. Their work doesn’t send audiences scrambling for the door, but it does leave something to be desired.

Broken up into seven sections, the dance portrays aspects of a typical train ride: from finding the best seat to the final departure. This work evades the downtown dance genre because of its extensive use of film. In addition to the opening sequence, interviews are shown with train conductors and passengers. Other footage includes the dancers repeating live movements in Grand Central Station. The video, projected on a constantly changing screen, notably distracts from the dancers, pulling the focus away from the suspension-filled choreography.

The exception to this is in A Look into the Past, a solo for Ms. Armstrong. Her lyrical style subtly demands attention more than the video. She relates to the screen in a more complimenting way than the other dancers.

Another successful excerpt without film is Chug-a Chug-a Choo Choo, featuring 5 of the company’s 7 females. Without challenging technique, the choreography allows the personalities of the dancers to shine as they impersonate a train. The dancers are visibly more comfortable performing to familiar music, by the Asylum Street Spankers, rather than the mix of train noises and verbal anecdotes to which most of the work is set. Ms. Bergeron seems to be the only dancer who can move naturally to these sounds.

While the purpose of including film is clear, All Aboard may be more effective if the video is limited to the opening segment. A single clip could set the stage for an evening of dance alone based on the transitory nature of trains. Theater audiences may not appreciate the contrast of dance versus film, but modern dance enthusiasts can certainly be on board.