You go to heaven for the halo, you go to hell for the rock and roll. And surely this rock and roll is worth going to hell for.
Uncorseted is a winding, wildly hilarious ride from lights up to lights down, and all the characters and conflicts are flung to the fore from the get go—after all, the show’s only got 30 minutes to climax. But I would not have protested to spending all night with “nipple consultant” Jetta Bra-man’s handiwork (I’ll never again look at my flesh-colored bras in the same way) and Carriage and Cemetery’s perfect, stiff-as-a-strap-on delivery.
They Call Me Mister Fry
Goethe Institut
Remaining Performances:
July 25, 4 p.m.
July 26, 5 p.m.
They say: “Welcome Back Kotter vs. COPS, King Arthur vs. No Child Left Behind. Watch this suburban white boy from Indiana battle the students, the establishment, and himself in a South Central classroom. Laughter, tears and extra credit provided. A true story.”
Brian’s take: [...]
That sounds like an unsatisfying ending, and maybe it was a bit. Also, the show begins with someone rattling the doorknob on the theater’s fire exit to find it locked, which is frankly not something anyone wants to see in these theaters. But between that beginning and the ending, this is a very strong and well-acted show that’s very much worth a look.
For those expecting an old fashioned concert with no skits, dancing, or story, the music did not disappoint. Here, carousel refers to the constantly rotating program from Blues to Bossa Nova to Broadway music over the nine-performance run—really three shows under one marquee. I attended on Broadway night and was treated to 21 numbers performed by talented vocalists Sally Martin, Tara McCredie, and Richard Tappen and accompanied by pianist Alex Tang.
Think West Side Story — only replace the racial strife with a bitter singing group rivalry and the rumble with an A Cappelloff. Does that make it cheesier? Hell yeah, it does. But it’s no less fun, and its gross exaggerations of everything that’s wrong with college only add to its idiosyncratic charm.
Look, the SpeakeasyDC guys don’t need our help — they’ve a proven record at Fringe as both vets and all-stars, they’re selling out shows. So they really don’t need us to tell you the show’s pretty great, but they’re getting it anyway, because, turns out? The show’s pretty great.
Patricia Krauss has found the perfect venue for her one-woman “physical comedy gestation,” in which the irrepressible Tooty Johnson—a metaphysically unmoored character played with the halting muggery of a Dana Carvey—sweats her way through an audition that never happens.
Long ago when I was in college, my good friend began embracing the term “chick” as an appropriate way to describe a new generation of feminism. I think “chick” is a rather brilliant signifier, describing female-specific content that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Plus, this coinage reclaims the word from its more demeaning form (an activity socio-political-activist-types adore). So, at the risk of putting off male audience members and pissing off old-guard feminists, I’ve decided Not Your Granny’s Revolution is a chick show—that is, a show about chicks who have moved past the sensitive diatribes and onto the self-aware humor of personal discovery.
The movie producer sums up Hollywood: if you get a big name actor, add some big tits, the script doesn’t matter. Apparently, 10th Muse Productions doesn’t put much stock in scripts either.
