Fringe - Day 3

Aiden Flynn Lost his Brother, so He Made Another (Theatre Howl)

Aiden Flynn road into this Fringe festival with a reputation that well preceded it. It had already garnered accolades across the country, including an award for Best English Production at the Montreal Fringe (although it's a silent play, so that's kind of cheating). But it remained an enigma to me, despite my familiarity with its creators. Naturally, I was curious. Now that I have seen it, I understand completely why it has received so much praise. It does everything right that a Fringe show can do.

The story follows Aiden Flynn, a young boy who sees his family start to fall apart in the wake of his young brother's stillbirth. So he takes it upon himself, through some ingenious, child-like wizardry to create a brother. After the animation is successful, the two quickly form an unbreakable bond. Aiden teaches his new brother all he can about the world, but he is not prepared for the fact that other people will be less keen on him. The obvious parallel with Frankenstein is acknowledged by having a poster advertising the movie visible in one scene. But that parallel, in addition to being too easy, is not particularly helpful. Frankenstein created his monster because of ego. Aiden Flynn's brother is born of love, just as a brother should be. That makes it all the more heartbreaking to see their relationship drift away from what Aiden wants it to be. It's a story of family: what breaks them apart and what pulls them together.

Aiden Flynn is cowritten by Nathan Howe and Morgan Murray, who are no strangers to the Saskatoon Fringe Festival. They have an eclectic portfolio of shows behind them, and while this is quite different from anything that came before, it still feels like a culmination of those previous efforts. This is their Fringe magnum opus. That's not to say that it's all downhill from here for Theatre Howl, but I am saying that Aiden Flynn demonstrates the work of people who have learned on the road and, through experience, figured out how to put together a show that just works on every level.

It is a silent show, told through movement, music, and shadow puppets. And also a projector, although that unfortunately was not working at the time I went to see the show. It is to the credit of the production, though, that it still worked so well even without one of its major elements. The reason Aiden Flynn can persevere through seemingly catastrophic technical failures is because simplicity is at the heart of the show. It is a simple tale of a boy and his brother (who is not quite as other brothers are) and the trials they must face together. Perhaps the best metaphor for the play as a whole is the lengthy scene toward the beginning when Aiden is teaching his new brother how to walk. Such profound emotion can be found in this act of infantile discovery. As the audience, we are right there taking those uneasy first steps, and we find ourselves rediscovering all those simple things that we have been taking for granted.

Nathan Howe's set design captures the bright imagination of the play while at the same time being compact enough for Fringe logistics. There are three screens set up onstage. The centre one is blank and used for projections and shadows. Certain scenes take place behind it in silhouette. The other two screens are adorned with decoration: they have multiple canvases each that can be flipped back and forth to alter time and place. Some of them exist purely for backdrop, but the actors sometimes interact with these screens as well. The scenes portrayed on them give the impression of a child's illustration: simplistic but vibrant, though they can convey a sense of bleakness as well, as when the leaves are stripped away and two bare trees adorn the stage. The physical act of flipping through the canvases aids the overall feel of the set as well, as it becomes a sort of storybook. The props used consist mostly of little odds and ends of junk that a boy might collect for his own contraptions. The slapdash assortment of items used, in addition to conveying Aiden's humble family station, gives a sense of supreme imagination as we see Aiden constructing his world before us.

Music is used frequently to convey mood. The score is all original to the play, and it works as a peculiar blend of classic whimsy with a more modern electronic feel. It weaves together the innocence and imagination of the story with the darker Frankensteinish elements. My only complaint is during Aiden's "Creation" scene the music veered too far to the electronic side that it lost the imagination of the moment, but didn't really go far enough to be dramatic. The music loses its sense of place a few times, but the overall mood is very well thought-out.

Morgan Murray takes the role of Aiden. He brings a sense of innocent charm to the character. With his broad smile and bright eyes he convincingly portrays a young boy. He conveys the plays moments of greatest happiness and greatest sadness through his expression. His vibrant energy throughout the play helps keep everyone locked in attention, especially in the early scenes when he is alone, and it creates an even more powerful contrast for those sad, quiet moments. Danielle Spilchen plays the brother. Bound up in a scarecrow outfit, covered in makeup, and fitted with some very clumsy hands, she still does a remarkable job at conveying emotion. She instills a sense of empathy in the audience very quickly, and she was able to elicit the only collective "aww" I have experienced at a Fringe play. Her movement skills are superb, particularly in her first scene where she is trying to learn basic locomotion (I have to assume that convincingly forgetting how to walk is much easier said than done). She doubtless earned a few bruises for her commitment through the falls she had to take. And though she has no words to use, Spilchen makes some incredible sounds, driving the inherent non-humanness of her character while still being filled with emotion. Both leads work extremely well together; there is an extraordinary level of communication and intimacy between, all achieved wordlessly.

Aiden Flynn has been compared to Pixar, and I can certainly see the resemblance. Personally I find it more akin to the Sylvain Chomet animated movies Triplets of Belleville and The Illusionist by the way it continually captures this sense of wonder and innocence, but retains a lingering sense of sadness underneath. Rather than cancel each other out, the two emotional levels weave into each other, creating something beautiful.  But more than anything, I can see this play as the work of the people involved, each one pouring a bit of their own soul into it - Nathan Howe's director, Nathan and Morgan's writing, and the captivating performances from Morgan and Danielle. It is a Fringe show of Fringe shows. Unique and unforgettable.

Fringe - Day 2

I Hate Bill Pats (Bessie-Jean Productions)

"The day after you decided to kill yourself is a weird day. That day kind of sneaks up on you."

Inevitably, at every Fringe there is one play that I hear people heaping praise onto but that I never manage to get to myself (because of petty human concerns like "time" and "money"). Last year, that play was I Hate Bill Pats. So I was delighted to see that the play was back on the roster this year, although I was a bit confused as to why it would come to the same Fringe two years in a row. As it turns out, this is more of an I Hate Bill Pats redux, combining together elements of the previous show as well as its sequel, I Hate Bill Pats 2: Electric Boogaloo (now that I think about it, the subtitle may actually have been Almost Homeless, but unfortunately I failed to take notes).

I Hate Bill Pats is a play about a man who hates himself (so naturally I found it easy to relate to). He begins with the story of how he was arrested for stealing $35,000 from Moxies when he worked there as a manager. He was arrested during a family dinner, in front of his wife, who had recently become a crown prosecutor. Because if there is one thing Bill Pats can do well, it is keep his life ironic. Bill continues to spin the tale of his arrest, his ensuing trial, and the efforts he took to just barely avoid prison. After that, we follow him across the years as he tries over and over again to put his life back together, plagued by troubling circumstances and bad choices. He takes us through his community service, two brushes with homelessness, a suicide attempt, and finally his discovery of acting.

Needless to say, we haven't all shared in Bill's life experience. We haven't all stolen from our work because we ran afoul of an irate Russian tow-truck driver. And we certainly haven't all bought Life brand sleeping pills to save money on our suicide. But there is a definite universality to his story, because we have all made bad choices; sometimes we narrowly escape the consequences, and sometimes we don't. Bill has had his share of both of those types of bad choices, and in the brave, unflinching way he shares this with us, he holds up a mirror for each of us to risk a glance, if we dare.

Bill Pats personifies that truly modernist archetype of the man vs himself. His life is a struggle on three levels. The first level is external: that raw, survival story where he fights against his circumstances  to eke out food and shelter. The second level is personal: the wrestling match against his own instincts and poor judgement, letting his emotions get the best of him and continually opting for deceit even when it threatens to destroy him. The third level is existential: that overpowering feeling that he has no reason to change, because his bad choices are intrinsic to him and he has precisely the life he deserves. This third level creates the soul of the play, because it challenges each and every member of the audience to consider themselves, and consider whether their life is the one they should really be leading, or just the one they think they should lead according to this nebulous notion of who they think they are.

The idea of personhood comes under question as the mantra of "I hate Bill Pats" cycles over and over. Is this Bill Pats he hates really himself, or is Bill Pats just an icon: a summation of all his bad choices externalised as an object of scorn? What is it that constitutes a person to begin with? These are questions that are left lingering on the air as we leave the auditorium. Because we can only answer one thing, and that is that we don't hate Bill Pats. We don't hate him because he is simply human, and for that hour that he is laid bare onstage he is more human than any of us.

I Hate Bill Pats is a poignant and soulful tale of a man who lost everything multiple times over. But it is also a profoundly hopeful tale of a man who kept pulling himself up, even after he was convinced it was the end. It is the story of a pained life, and though we, as the audience, cannot take that pain away, we can share in it for a little while, collectively acknowledging that there is a bit of hate in all of us, but that we don't need to live by it.

Bizarro Obscure (Peachy Keen Productions)

And now for something completely different. Departing from the very terrestrial subject of self-loathing in Winnipeg, let us move on to the shifting sands of reality many worlds apart. Let us move on to Bizarro Obscure, an inter-dimensional cabaret showcasing the universe's oddities, delighting in the unconventional and off-kilter.

Our characters are Janis and Jujube, musical performers on some unspecified plane of existence. But their concert is cut short when Jujube receives a mysterious letter instructing her that she must become a guardian to a small earthling boy named Daniel. So Janis and Jujube set out on a journey across the fabric of reality to save Daniel. Along the way, their misadventures find them tangling with a pair of magic glasses, a bearded lady, and a Russian DJ.

As I am writing this review, it occurs to me how difficult it is to render into words the actual plot of this play. If you are someone who demands a straightforward narrative, don't go see this play. Or actually, do go see this play, and let it broaden your horizons a little. Bizarro Obscure is a whirlwind tour of all the things the universe lost in the dryer. The loosely drawn narrative of Janis and Jujube's voyage across time and space is intercut with little vignettes of the strange folks they meet on their journey, as well as many beautiful and spine-tingling musical numbers. There is a bit of vaudeville in here, the way it combines all manners of performance (acting, comedy, song, and dance) but it's more like if vaudeville fell through a black hole and continued to evolve in an alien dimension, but still received the occasional TV signal from Earth. Am I making sense? No? Good.

The musical talent drives a large portion of Bizarro. The songs work well as standalone pop-folk-rock numbers, but are done in such a way that gives them a very extra-terrestrial feeling. The music sets the mood of being whisked across the universe on a journey just slightly beyond mortal comprehension. Christy Taronno (Jujube) is a musical powerhouse, rocking vocals and guitar. She's like a folk-rock angel who spent some time as an extra on Beetlejuice and her full, ethereal voice never fails to captivate. Meanwhile, Sydney Hayduk (Janis) dazzles us with her electrifying dance moves.

Hayduk is a firecracker on stage, taking on the roles of Janis, the bearded lady, and the little misfit boy Daniel. She captures a lot of character in her movement. As Janis she is more unnatural and alien (and a little robotic), but then as Daniel "the strongest boy in the world" she is brimming with earthly exuberance. She exudes both the inherent strangenesss of Bizarro as well as the undiluted human energy that burns at its core. Taronno is a bit more reserved in her acting, tackling the icy Russian DJ who shows up quite inexplicably (even by this play's standards). But as Jujube she is filled with hope and compassion, determined to do right by her charge. The two women (who also co-wrote the play) work brilliantly together in all aspects of performance. Their comedic timing bounces off each other and keeps everything moving swiftly across the cosmos, sweeping the audience along.

But for all the weird trappings Bizarro Obscure has, it has a very human theme at its core. It is about finding ourselves, finding the strength to accept ourselves as we are, with all our quirks and failings. The play is a celebration, and once we have swum across the tides of space and time we realise what it is a celebration of: everything out of the ordinary, everything that doesn't quite fit. After travelling so far away from our world, we come to understand ourselves a little better.

Bizarro Obscure is a dazzling blend of comedy, music, and touching drama. From beginning to end it operates within the realm of the abstruse and inexplicable, but deep within the weirdness we see ourselves, and realise that to understand ourselves, we need to look a little off-centre. Because the truth is stranger than fiction, and people are stranger than characters, and we all might as well learn to live with strange: it's not going anywhere.

Fringe - Day 1

2 for Tea (Life & Depth)

Take Monty Python and add a dash of Pirandello, and that will give you a rough idea of what you might expect from 2 for Tea at this year's fringe.

The play comes to us from across the pond. Performer/creators James Brown and Jamesy Evans hail from Sussex, but they have been touring North America for the past year. We all enjoy dabbling in British comedy, so it is nice to see an authentic take onstage.

2 for Tea centres on a very simple subject. There is tea ... for two of them. Every week James goes to visit his friend Jamesy for tea. Jamesy is in some way mentally ill, demonstrated by his obsession with routine and general fear of the outside. At the play's beginning we are greeted by the scene of Jamesy setting up the table for tea, adjusting everything millimetre by millimetre until it is just so. There is a long period of silence which Jamesy Evans uses as a sort of movement piece. He carries himself in such an ostentatiously dainty manner that "mince" does not even come close to covering it. This continues through the whole play, with Jamesy moving in very strange and specific ways that almost seems like an alien who is still trying to figure out how the human body works (and he demonstrates hip control that would surely get Shakira's nod of approval). It creates a bizarre scene right off the bat, but his commitment to it is responsible for much of the play's humour.

James, on the other hand, is the more normal of the two. He indulges Jamesy's idiosyncracies because he appreciates having Jamesy as a friend. We don't really know anything about James, though it is assumed he has a mostly normal life apart from these visits for tea. Although there is a great contrast between the two characters, a bond of friendship is evident all the way through.

But while James seems to lack Jamesy's odd habits, he is the first one to break the fourth wall. There some very clever moments when James starts making asides and Jamesy looks out in bewildered terror, not quite knowing what is going on. Just as James indulges Jamesy's quirks, Jamesy starts to play along with this whole notion of "the audience", first cautiously, until he finally begins to see it for himself.

And at that point 2 for Tea stops following any conventional rules of drama that I have ever learned. It becomes an endearing blend of farce and improv where J&J start interacting with the audience and incorporating the response into their show on the fly. Some of these are planned, like when they go out to speak to audience members directly, and some of them happen organically, like when the guy sitting behind me had his phone start doing off, and Jamesy started dancing and singing along with the ringtone.

A large part of the play is based on audience participation. J&J pull certain audience members up to fulfill roles in the play: a general, a doctor, and Jamesy's parents. This is where the show could start to go either way. In the performance I saw, one of the audience members worked very well in the scene, while another worked somewhat less well. But whatever happened, J&J always had quick reflexes to keep the scene flowing smoothly.

The play goes into some weird places toward the end. There is plenty of comedy all throughout, oscillating between dry wit and slapstick, but there are sombre moments as well, plumbing the depths of their friendship and the universe at large. The whole thing is kind of a metaphor. Just as two friends may sit around a cup of tea (or whatever beverage you prefer) and ponder all life's questions, 2 for Tea is a meditation on all sorts of things, but continues to be anchored by this farcical afternoon tea.

2 for Tea is a hilarious, unique, meta-theatrical experience that isn't afraid to jump quite unexpectedly into darker subjects. Jamesy's peculiar mental state is used for comedic effect, but it's also treated with respect by the friendship they have for each other. It's a tale of friendship, above all. Friendship and tea.

Also, the two actors spend the whole show in heavy tweed jackets even though it gets close to 30°C in Oskayak gym. That's dedication.