Bear Ass
“We summoned a bear using porn
magic!”
If ever a play could be encapsulated
with a single line of dialogue, this is it. This year's Fringe
offering, Bear Ass, took an
emotional character story of three women entering adulthood, mixed it
with a loving cabin-in-the-woods horror parody, sprinkled in some
song and dance, and tied everything into one controversial work of
Canadian literature. The work is Bear,
the award-winning Marian Engels novel about a woman finding love with
a forest predator, and from the moment our characters uncovered a
dusty copy in the cabin they're staying at, things just get weirder.
This play stars
three U of S alumni: Kelly McTaggart, Lauren Younghusband, and
Miranda Hughes, playing characters named – interestingly – Kelly,
Lauren, and Miranda. The three old high school friends have found
themselves drifting apart throughout university, and are spending the
weekend at a spooky cabin to reconnect before life pulls them apart.
The three characters slip initially into three main archetypes.
Miranda is the timid, conservative one with a bit of a self-righteous
streak; Kelly is the brash, promiscuous one who refrains from
sentimentality; and Lauren is the level-headed one who has been
defined largely by her long-term relationship which has just came
crashing to an end. While the three women try to forget their
troubles in revelry of song, dance, and the biggest vodka bottle I've
ever seen, old resentments bubble forward and they find themselves
clashing with each other. Then, upon discovering a stash of
witchcraft supplies and a piece of bear-themed erotic literature, the
three cast a spell that inadvertently unleashes something terrible.
Kelly
McTaggart also wrote the script, and she made something remarkable.
She balances on the line between the emotion of the characters and
the absurdity of the situation. She has a way with words, and
combining the twisted wit she shows on the page with the dry delivery
she shows on the stage, she creates moments that are absolutely
riotous. Her oddball sense of humour pits Bear Ass's
flawed characters against a background of complete insanity. Their
idiosyncrasies shine through, but it's hard to stay caught up in
personal strife after they've summoned a bear with porn magic.
McTaggart is pulling from personal experience to establish the
particular brand of humour that Bear Ass
contains. There is a bit of an assumed familiarity between the play
and the audience that anyone from the Saskatoon drama scene will
enjoy. While the play might suffer from a lack of universal appeal,
it makes up for it with the easy chemistry among the actresses.
The three leading
ladies work very well together. McTaggart is rough-edged and
sarcastic, slipping very naturally into the dialogue (as she should,
since she wrote it). Hughes takes the more innocent side of the trio,
but she has a weighty stage presence, and she lands the emotional
punches. Younghusband aims down the middle, playing a lot of her
character in sullen silences, but breaking out in moments of
intensity. She also pulls double-duty as the banjo-playing
local-yokel who starts off the play spouting a lot of creepy-old-man
portents of doom. Younghusband has a lot of fun with this, utilizing
crazy eyes and some hilarious quavering line deliveries, but holds
back from jumping too deep into farce.
Overall,
Bear Ass explores some
thoughtful messages about the confusion of adulthood and the trials
of continuing old friendships. Those themes are strung throughout a
milieu of hilarious musical horror comedy to create a really
delightful experience. And then there's the bear porn – including
between-scene voiceovers featuring actual excerpt's from Engels'
novel – which ties the whole play together into something unique.
Although there is
less naked banjo-playing than the poster would suggest.
Love Sounds Bad
We all know about
love. We know about clichéd Hollywood love, but we also know about
that other, messier kind of love that inexplicably brings two people
together and often causes destruction around them. And that kind of
love is what this musical comedy is all about.
The
musical is divided into four acts, each with its own specific theme.
“The Large Comfortable Chair” explores the sexual tensions
between two performers on a children's TV show. “Daily Double
Homicide” involves two people who meet at the funeral of beloved
Jeopardy! contestant
Ken Jennings, and decide to make funeral hook-ups a habit. “Roommate
of the Month” looks at two friends sharing a one-bedroom apartment,
each one jealously lashing out at the other's romantic interests,
unable to admit they're in love with each other. And the show-stopper
“A Vegan Mingles” that involves a meat-lover who finds love when
she goes undercover as a vegan.
This
peculiar musical is the brainchild of Jenna Berenbaum and Connor
Brousseau, spawned from a skit they developed for “Play in a Day”
a couple years back. I remember the early performance of “Vegan
Mingle” and being delighted by its exuberant comedy. That scene
remains much the same, with perhaps a couple minutes added, but its
unique spirit has been expanded over the whole four-act show. Love
Sounds Bad is satirical without
being cynical. It deals with flawed, damaged – and at times
homicidal – characters, but Berenbaum and Brousseau attack these
characters with such wide-eyed innocence and joie de vivre that we
find ourselves drawn to them anyway. The play criticizes the troubled
way these characters behave while still allowing us to celebrate the
triumph of their inexplicable attraction to each other. The result is
a dark-tinged but nevertheless uplifting comedy.
Of the
four scenes, “Daily Double Homicide” is probably the standout.
That one goes furthest to embracing the absurdity inherent in the
play, where two characters carve a swatch of murder across the city
in order to meet up at the funerals (but at least they started with
that bastard Brad Rutter). Also, the image of two insane street
thugsters who are also huge Jeopardy!
fans is a good thesis for the wacky humour Berenbaum and Brousseau
have come up with. “The Large Comfortable Chair” is a good
starting point because it sets up the acidic tensions and riotous
humour that permeates the rest of the show. “Vegan Mingle” delves
deepest into pure satire and embraces the cheesy musical side of
things. “Roommate of the Month” builds nice character dynamics
but overall doesn't come off as memorable as the others.
The music is
charming. Each scene has a definitive theme that feels quite catchy.
There is a kind of self-aware immaturity about the songs in a lot of
cases. Mostly this feeds into the overall charm of the play, but a
little more polishing of the music would help to complete the whole
show.
Love Sounds Bad
is a hilarious romp through the vexations of love. It delights in
adolescent innocence but maintains a keen satirical eye.
Southern Dandy 75
The
world of fiction is replete with legendary spirits. No, not ghosts.
Spirits.
Johnny-Jump-Up cider, Blackbriar mead, that stuff with the gold
flakes from Superbad.
… OK, maybe there aren't that many, but the point is that none of
them compare to the luxury and magnificence of that sweet bourbon,
Southern Dandy 75.
This
play, from the mind of Andrew Taylor, proclaims itself to be
'O Brother, Where Art Thou' meets 'Trailer Park Boys' meets
'Steamboat Willie'. After
watching the play, I find that to be an apt description. The story
involves two hobos, played by Devin Wesnoski and Luke Pennock, who
try to appease their angry landlady (Lindsay Adams) by promising her
husband (Jared Beattie) a bottle of sweet Southern Dan. They try to
swipe the precious bourbon out from under the local liquor-vendor
(Grahame Kent) – who also happens to be running for mayor on a
temperance platform – but in the process end up with his sheltered
daughter (Danielle Spilchen) wrapped up in their scheme. What follows
could be be described by the word “shenanigans”.
Andrew
Taylor is best remembered for the greatest fringe show of all time,
Two Corpses Go Dancing.
Southern Dandy bears
almost no resemblance to that particular play, although it still
draws from a folktale (a hobo tale, instead of a Yiddish one). But
that is a very difficult predecessor to live up to, so I try to put
that out of my mind. Southern Dandy
is, on its own, a charming and zany tale that is well supported by
the strength of its cast.
One highlight is
the scene of Jared Beattie and Grahame Kent competing against each
other in the mayoral debate. Both men have strong charisma onstage
and balance each other well, between Kent's snide arrogance and
Beattie's salt-of-the-earthiness. Lindsay Adams brought a definite
feisty-ness to her role, and Danielle Spilchen was delightful as
ever, blending her forceful personality with a sense of sweet
innocence. Wesnoski and Pennock had good chemistry with each other,
staying open and emotive, but at various points they seemed to lose
the hobo-ness that was supposed to define their characters.
It's a funny play
which frolics in absurdity and definitely feels reminiscent of those
“tall tales” of the old west. There is a spirit of adventure
persistent throughout. Yet the absurdity that provides delightful
moments also works against the narrative strength. It feels more like
crazy moments piled on top of each other than an interconnected
story. Nothing quite fits together. The story veers off in a lot of
directions, leaving the feeling that the play lacks a nucleus. This
lack of grounding allows to push the absurdity to create some
brilliant moments onstage, but some more focus in the plot would give
it a greater sense of completion.
Displaced
Three women. 160
years. One story.
After three
comedies, Displaced offered a marked change of pace. Here was
a gripping and poignant drama about the trials one has to go through
to call this country home. The play follows three storylines across
different time periods. Mary (Katie Moore) is an Irishwoman fleeing
the famine in 1847, and loses her infant on the boat ride across the
Atlantic. Sofia (Anna Mazurik) is a German widow emigrating to Canada
following the Second World War with her dead husband's violin in tow.
Dara (Emma Laishram) escapes from Afghanistan in 2007, avoiding a
grim fate with her family. The three women find themselves working as
servants, on the same street, across a span of 160 years, trying to
find their way in an unfamiliar country.
If one word could
describe this play, it would be “fluidity”. Much as the
characters are displaced from their homes, the play has a very
precarious position in time and space. Like a ball of hot plasma,
Displaced is constantly changing shape, shifting from one
storyline to the next. It never halts or stutters, but flows
continuously in its cyclical current. In some ways it is like a
dance. The most striking moments in the play are when the three women
come centre stage to perform chores in unison, across decades,
swapping modern and ancient tools between them in a rhythmic
ceremony. It is in those moments that the theme of the play
crystallizes, shining out, separate from time and place, crying out
that single word, “displaced”.
Displaced
was conceived by Nathasha Martina and Sue Mythen, with Martina taking
the helm as director. Her style is evident throughout the piece,
bringing her movement-based approach to the production. Without that
same sense of movement that Martina is known for, the play would not
work. It would not have the same organic feel that its fluidity
brings.
Apart
from the direction and movement, the drama relies on the strength of
its cast. Each actress must hold down the major role in her own
storyline as well as multiple supporting roles in the other
storylines. They all demonstrate the ability to slip back and forth
between these roles with incredible ease. Katie Moore has to balance
the most heart-wrenching storyline with the most upbeat side
character. As Mary, Moore demonstrates a profound sense of loss,
threaded with a classic Irish temper. Anna Mazurik plays Sofia with
despondency and quiet rage. Much of the character rests on her
relationship with her dead husband's violin, which she can't even
play, and Mazurik embodies the pain and longing in that relationship
very well. Emma Laishram has a strong, reserved core, playing Dara as
someone with intense inner fortitude but who is still very nervous on
the subjects of rules and authority. She also has excellent chemistry
with Mazurik, playing the archetypal 1940s housewife who employs
Sofia.
If I
were to level a criticism against Displaced,
it would be that at times, the dialogue slips too easily back into
archetypes when it could be better served taking a more realistic
approach. Certain shortcuts are necessary for an hour-long Fringe
show, but there were still times I bristled at the lack of finesse in
the dialogue. One particular scene set in a Starbucks, involving a
lazy, intolerant barista and a crusading hipster felt more like
something out of a Tumblr post and didn't jive with the soulful
naturalism of the rest of the place.
For
whatever minor flaws it has, Displaced
is a triumph in theatre. It succeeds in telling a story across
generations with grace and dexterity, in capturing the depths of
tragedy and the shimmers of hope. It is a story that always stays
relevant and close to the heart: the story of seeking to belong, and
to find a place to call your own.
Loveseat
Hook-ups,
break-ups, and everything in between. That is, in many ways, the
essence of theatre, and that is what Loveseat
tries to explore. It begins at the end of a long relationship and
peels back the layers of history to figure out where everything went
wrong, eventually determining that no one really knows for sure.
Loveseat
features Kelly McTaggart and Kyle Kuchirka as Anna and David, a
couple that find themselves at the end of a five-year marriage. When
packing up the apartment to go their separate ways, they realize that
they never decided who got to keep the sofa. While they quibble over
their last piece of property, they look back on the events that
brought them to where they are. The play then splits into two
parallel timelines: one in the present, in the throes of argument and
passion; and one going backwards through history, highlighting major
moments from their marriage.
McTaggart
and Kuchirka have excellent chemistry, which really drives the action
of the play. McTaggart's seriousness and sarcastic wit bounces off
Kuchirka's energetic playfulness. But they each carry a wounded side
to them which shows itself in moments of intensity. They play off
each other convincingly in moments of young adoration, bristly
tension, and confused anger-sex. There is a definite comfort level
between them that allows them to play to a certain level of intimacy.
Yet, for all their chemistry, the emotional dynamic never quite
carries the gravity of a married couple.
The
play was written and directed by Sarah Grummett, developed from its
conception in last years 24-Hour Playwriting Competition. Having seen
snippets of it at that early stage, I enjoyed the chance to view it
in full-form. Grummett weaves an impressive emotional range into the
script, and the parallel timelines allow for a quick-paced
alternation between different levels of intensity. Loveseat
balances comedy with its emotional conflict, and there are some very
clever moments of humour sprinkled throughout the play. Yet there are
some moments that are more jarring. There is a fade-to-black sex
scene which doesn't actually fade to black, but more just drops
lights to about 50% so actors are still in full view when they
abruptly stop and walk offstage, creating a very Brechtian
mood-spoiler. A scene where Anna catches David watching porn (and
seriously, who watches pay-per-view porn anymore?) just plays to old
clichés rather than trying to arrive at a more nuanced point about
sexual dynamics.
I
appreciate that Loveseat
embraces messiness in relationships. It doesn't try to peg either
David or Anna into a particular role, or parse out blame in a
clean-cut way. Yet it also lacks a final moment of clarity that
allows the audience to put the whole picture together. David and Anna
are tangled up in a web of inadequacy and infidelity, but there is a
stinging question of where their problems actually come from, what
ultimately makes them incompatible. The play comes close to answering
these questions, but veers off before getting to the heart of the
problem. Dialogue pays lip service to Anna being a doctor, but the
effects of such a long, demanding job are never really explored, and
instead David just comes off as an asshole for his inexplicable
belittling of her profession. And there is the burning question of
why Grummett (whose director's notes mention taking inspiration from
her own painful breakup) chose to make the characters a married
couple. The character dynamics never really support that premise.
They convincingly play as people who have been dating for a couple
years, but the tensions and problems they hash out ultimately feel
too immature to suddenly rise to the surface after five years of
marriage.
Loveseat
is a charming play supported by an excellent cast and some clever
writing. The whole scope of it just needs more clarity and purpose
before the play becomes truly great.
Look//See
Horror
is not easy to pull off in live theatre. It is not something that
many people attempt. Over several years at Fringe I have seen shows
that approach horror. I've seen the fluffy storytelling approach from
Erik de Waal's tales of terror, the whimsical macabre of Aiden
Flynn Lost His Brother, the
dark, soul-searching dirges of Two Corpses Go Dancing,
and the horror elements draped across a foundation of comedy-drama in
Dead Air. Yet I've
never seen a play that went for full cinematic horror. Until now.
Look//See
is about as star-studded as a Saskatoon Fringe show can get. An
offering from Theatre Howl, the script was penned by longtime
Fringers Nathan Howe and Morgan Murray. Kate Herriot took the
director's chair, and the cast was made up of U of S alumni Elizabeth
Nepjuk, Danielle Roy, Alex Hartshorn, and Ciara Richardson. The story
begins with four friends, Rachel (Nepjuk), Michelle (Roy), Dawn
(Hartshorn), and Leona (Richardson) gathered in an ice-fishing shack,
where Michelle recounts the night before, performing a Bloody
Mary-esque ritual called the Three Kings, which might have unleashed
an evil spirit from the other side of a mirror. Of course, this is
just a silly ghost story – until Leona dies in a tragic accident,
and then seems to appear at her own funeral. The women find
themselves caught in a nightmare, stalked and usurped by their own
reflections.
In
lesser hands, this endeavour would surely have descended into a mess
of cheesiness and melodrama. But this group of artists made Look//See
something truly terrifying. It
melded together the perfect combination of sudden jump-scares and an
overarching sense of dread. It succeeded in part by playing against
the conventions of theatre. Much of the play is spent in the dark.
Herriot's direction sculpts shadows onstage to create a secondary
set. The comfortable, well-lit stage becomes dark and alien, so the
audience is not entirely certain what it is seeing. This clever use
of shadow allows the actresses to stand in as each other's
reflections and various points. Viewers are constantly caught
off-guard, having casually accepted they were seeing one thing and
suddenly discovering they were seeing something else. It creates the
uncanny sensation that you are actually seeing a person onstage in
two places at once.
The
premise of the play is based on mirrors, and the set (designed by
Anna Seibel) runs with that. Mirrors turn up at various times, often
seeming like perfectly ordinary mirrors until the time comes for
something to crawl out of one, or pull someone else in. Set pieces
are static throughout the show, only covered by white sheets when not
in use. It is a simple design choice, but it succeeds in creating a
wonderful ghostly backdrop when the stage is draped in shadow.
On top
of the excellent stylistic choices, Look//See
could not ask for a better cast. The four actresses work so well
together, and navigate the dialogue so naturally, it feels like the
play was written for them. The opening scene is brimming with quick,
witty dialogue, enhanced by the actors' spot-on delivery and
occasional ad lib. They establish clashing personalities quickly, but
stay organic enough not to fall into horror archetypes. The main
conflict arises between skeptical Rachel and try-anything Michelle,
who got the idea to start dabbling in the occult. Nepjuk is the
straight-man of the ensemble, and she carries the role with the
maturity she is known for. She demonstrates her character's
skepticism without seeming too hard-headed, and conveys a chilling
sense of terror in the play's climax. Roy brings her trademark blend
of playfulness and intensity. She brings to life most of the play's
comedic moments, but her charismatic stage presence also generates a
shroud of darkness as we creep closer to the horrific conclusion.
Hartshorn brings a sense of reserve to the group dynamics, but really
sells her moments of terror. She has a wonderful grasp of subtle
physicality, shining particularly as her mirror-self with its awkward
movements in the real world, and also being a convincing double for
Richardson in an early shocking scene. Richardson has a tough job,
only really getting one scene to establish her character. But in that
short time she demonstrates such an adorable vivacity that the
audience can connect with her immediately, making her later
appearances as a “ghost” all the more chilling.
I
could question a few things about the script, like how four
20-something women ended up ice-fishing together. I could call
attention to a few cliché moments of poor decision-making and debate
whether they were a sign of bad writing or a self-aware throwback to
horror movie tropes. And I could make mention of the predictable
glitch that occurred in a scene where one actress was mirroring the
movements of another. But these are minor concerns in a play that
succeeds on so many levels.
I have
been on the search for a great horror movie lately, and I haven't
seen many that feel as complete an experience as Look//See
does. It maintains a dark, dreadful atmosphere throughout the show,
crafting its isolated shock-scares so each one still feels
surprising, and it layers all this over some brilliant character
dynamics. I couldn't have asked for a better Fringe show this year.
