If You See Something Say Something
Woolly Mammoth Theatre

Remaining Performances:
Saturday, July 26 @ 4 PM
Saturday, July 26 @ 8 PM

They say: “Master storyteller Mike Daisey’s new comic monologue takes aim at the history of the Department of Homeland Security. Combining eye-opening research and witty autobiography, he bores into the dark heart of America to discover the meaning of security and the price we are willing to pay for it.”

Brian’s take: Got some free time this weekend? Oooh, I’ve got an idea–you should pay $20 to let a man sit at a table and talk to you for two hours about the history of American security!

You might think I’m being sarcastic (two hours of a man sitting at a table, you say?), but I shit you not. That is actually what you should do, as long as the man’s name is Mike Daisey, the creator and comic purveyor of the exquisitely conceived If You See Something Say Something. I’ll leave the sarcasm up to him.

There may be no metaphor in security, as Daisey astutely notes, but he certainly injects metaphor (and simile, and irony, and synecdoche, and peripetea, &c, &c) aplenty into this series of monologues–stories, really–which he weaves with enthralling dexterity of voice, tone, gesture, and expression.  The show is billed as the story of the Department of Homeland Security, but much of the focus is on the history of the atomic bomb.  The piece is obsessively researched, and by interlacing the straight history with his own anecdotes and observations, Daisey is able to infuse a somewhat sterile topic with a folksy, around-the-campfire sensibility.  In some of the most disturbing but memorable moments, Daisey is even able to turn the monologue into something of a ghost story–one minute you’re laughing at the foibles of Bernard Kerik, the next minute Daisey is describing in unsettling detail what would happen if Cohen’s neutron bomb were detonated above the theater, and you feel just a bit sick for joking around only moments earlier.  

Daisey is one of those people (I’ve seen him before) who can make anything scintillating, so even if you proclaim to be uninterested in neutrons and bombs and the Cold War and deserts and Tom Ridge and that kind of thing, go if only to spend some quality time with Daisey.  It’s like taking one of your favorite nonfiction authors–I’ll use Ian Frazier but you can fill-in-the-blank–crossing him with your favorite stand-up comedian–let’s say, oh, I don’t know, Robin Williams–and hunkering down in a bar for a few hours to discuss a subject about which he’s read every book possible.

See it if: You’ve ever been frisked ever-so-scandalously by a security guard.

Skip it if: You are overly paranoid about getting radiation poisoning.

Several commenteers (the extra “e” is purposeful, in the vein of “buccaneers” or “racketeers”) have requested a daily open thread for purging purposes.

So…what’s turning you on?  What’s turning you off?  What’s turning you around in circles?  Good God, please, tell us!

What: OmegaBand
Who: You
Where: The Baldacchino (607 New York Ave NW)
When: Tonight, 10 PM - 11 PM
How much: $0
Why: Why not?

I struggle with plays about the Iraq War. On Sunday, I saw Jack Gilhooley’s The Warrior, and it was probably the best Iraq piece I’ve seen. Still, I can’t say I enjoyed it, nor did I find it very dramatically compelling, and as I left the theater I realized that I have never seen what I consider to be a “well-made” or “good” play about the war in Iraq.

Before I go on, let me clarify a few things. As Tammy, the main character and documentary subject of the play, Marietta Elaine Hedges is quite remarkable. She gives an emotionally draining and extremely passionate performance. The play’s content is also dense, well-developed, and rife with conflict. The whole experience is very disturbing, and I left the theater unsettled, as I gather was the playwright’s intention.

But on the whole, I found The Warrior dramatically unsatisfying. I don’t expect to like or enjoy plays about the Iraq War. But I do expect a play to be a play, and in the various Iraq pieces I have seen, there seems to be a trend towards politically virulent, dramatically unsound playwriting.

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The Naked Party
The Shop at Fort Fringe

Remaining Performances:
Friday, July 25 @ 10:30 PM; Saturday, July 26 @ 11 PM; Sunday, July 27 @ 2:30 PM

They say: “A hot new play that gives an intimate and honest look at exactly how much there is to lose when you decide to reveal yourself. The Naked Party takes nine students and strips them of their costumes, armor (and inhibitions) in order to fully see themselves for the first time.”

Brian’s take: All right, I’ll admit it. I may have been to a naked party or two. Ok, fine, and by “two” I mean two dozen. And maybe, just maybe a handful of those were held in my living room. So what? I’m not ashamed. We nibbled sashimi and rhapsodized about Kant, you know, normal Saturday night stuff. Hell, the New York Times covered a naked party I helped host–that’s gotta lend a guy some credibility, right?

Maybe not. However, I do feel particularly qualified to offer my opinion of The Naked Party, which has been selling out the Shop at Fort Fringe. There are elements of the show that work very nicely, such as a conceit by which every party-goer gets time in a closet to undress while airing their inner feelings. Likewise with the staging–maneuvering 9 actors around a space as small as the Shop with quite a few set pieces is no easy task, and playwright-director Jason Schlafstein manages to minimize traffic jams while keeping the picture dynamic and balanced. And I have to give a shout-out to Guitar Guy, a character that might have been forgettable had not Rob Shand done such a superb job engaging (and, at all the appropriate times, blissfully disengaging) with the silliness around him. Plus he reminds me of about 15 of my buddies rolled into one.

It’s actually quite remarkable how Guitar Guy, who has very few lines and integration with the main action, emerges more fully than some of the more prominent characters. My first thought upon leaving the theater was that Schlafstein should excise a character or two–Julie, perhaps, or Jordan, who both seem to represent the same moral conundrum. But the concept for this play poses a logistical dilemma: it requires a quorum in order to put the party in “naked party,” and each member of this quorum, if the play is to reach its potential, must be more fully fleshed out.

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Slave Narratives Revisited
a celebration of freedom
Studio Theatre

Remaining Performances:
Saturday, July 19 @ 7 PM
Sunday, July 20 @ Noon
Sunday, July 27 @ 4 PM

They say: “Multiple award winning author Ed Shockley follows the success of 2007’s world premiere of The Oracle with the D.C. premiere of a new touring show. Modechai Vanunu, Nat Turner, Nelson Mandela, Sitting Bull plus other historic and fictional characters manage to find humor and maintain dignity in the face of oppression.”

Brian’s take: Yesterday was Nelson Mandela’s 90th birthday. To celebrate, Ed Shockley and lary moten (yes, he keeps his name provocatively lower-cased) of the Mosaic Theatre opened the DC run of their impeccably executed Slave Narratives Revisited: a celebration of freedom.

It is the mesmerizing performances by Shockley and moten that truly make this piece soar. I would use the word “unparalleled” if the two did not parallel each other so wonderfully and in such complementary ways. Talk about sweatin’ the small stuff: from a simple slackening of the face to an elaborate syncopating of a sermon, these guys employ a formidable arsenal of physical and vocal nuances to inhabit their various characters, and neither of them misses a beat. To read Slave Narratives Revisited would be one thing–an emotional but ultimately academic experience–but to see it breathing, to feel your pulse syncrhonize with the rhythms of speech, to look these characters in the eyes, to hear the silence, this is why we get out of our rocking chairs and into the theater.

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Life is a Dream
Long View Gallery (1302 9th St. NW)

Remaining Performances:
Friday, July 18 @ 8 PM; Saturday, July 19 @ 2 PM & 8 PM

They say: “Segismundo has spent his whole life imprisoned in a rocky tower until he wakes one morning the crown prince of Poland. Is this a dream? What dark secret has kept Segismundo locked away? This 17th century blockbuster forces us to examine how our actions can create the enemies we fear.”

Brian’s take: Ok, so what did I learn from this production? Life is a Dream is perhaps one of the most resilient plays in the western canon. That Calderón de la Barca’s masterpiece withstands the hack job given it by the ladies (this is an all-female affair) of Uncut Pages Theater Company is a testament to the piece’s timelessness.

Charlotte Rahn-Lee, who doubles as Clarin, a Sancho Panza-type sidekick, and Astolfo, the egotistical Muscovite prince, is the only competent actress on the stage. None of the others have any idea what to do with themselves: they hold their hands stiffly at their sides, they bob their heads around, they shuffle their feet, they walk backwards. (It doesn’t help that the staging is a shambles.) In order to convince us that Segismundo has spent his life chained in a tower, Becky Fullan resorts to clenching her teeth for 2 hours and 5 minutes (yes, the 100 minute claim in the program is a lie) and panting heavily. I would’ve offered her a retainer and/or an inhaler had I not been severely frightened of her.

I love this play, and it saddens me to see it desecrated so. But still, whether or not they understood the emotion or the meaning or the fact that people had actually paid $15 to see this malarky, the performers did manage to speak Calderón’s words with a certain amount of articulation. And it was in these words–the wit and pathos and poetry and sage koans of one of the finest plays ever penned–that I took my solace.

(That, and in the cool Edward Weston-inspired pepper paintings lining the wall of the art gallery-turned-theater.)

See it if: You’ve been meaning to read or re-read this play and just haven’t gotten around to it.

Skip it if: Yeah, you’ll probably skip it. I don’t blame you.

At the MLK library on Monday, the folks from the Molotov Theatre presented a workshop on stage blood in the style of the old Grand Guignol in Paris. It was a rather sanguine affair, just slightly depraved and a lot of fun. We got to mix our own blood (and eat it, since it was made of corn syrup and food coloring), and then several of us received wounds of various shapes and sizes. I have to say I was quite pleased with mine: a long gash down my right bicep, with a bit of bone showing, some shards of muscle, and an inordinate amount of blood. You can read more about my adventures walking around town with this repulsive injury–as well as learn about the most assassinated woman in history–after the jump. But first, check out this utterly stomach-churning video:

Trouble viewing? Try the YouTube version.

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MANIFESTO!
The Source

Remaining Performances:
Saturday, July 19 @ 8 PM; Sunday, July 20 @ 3:30 PM; Wednesday, July 23 @ 7:30 PM; Saturday, July 26 @ 9 PM

They say: Manifesto!
Art movement. Political movement.
MANIFESTO! is DADA. Clown is HAHA!
Three clowns, two punk visionaries, and an impresario walk into a bar. This is not a joke! This is a spectacular divertimento to launch the next great movement! Inspired by the PAST, NOW is the FUTURE. MANIFESTO! excites everything!**

Brian’s take: Pearheads. Choo-choo trainsies. Hypnotic spiraling head expanders. Funny HAHA dancing. Wheeling typewriter impostors:::::::::::::::::::::Honky-tonk saw. Stand UP! sit down. (Bald-headed crystal ball). Balloon&Broom&Bicycle wheelie….

Those are just a few examples of the glorious nuggets of nonsense that comprise MANIFESTO!, the Happenstance Theater’s delightful romp through the surreal, unreal, anti-real, ethereal landscape of DADA. This superb ensemble cast, led by Mark Jaster and Sabrina Mandell, has taken snippets from texts across four schools of thought–futurism, communism, capitalism, and dada–and artfully fashioned them into an hour-long comedic revue in which, ultimately, dada seeps into and seduces all.

But MANIFESTO! is by no means a history lesson. In fact, it is perhaps the most deftly theatrical display of reading-in-between-the-lines I have ever seen: a multi- and extra-sensory extravaganza with insanely stunning visual imagery stitched together by rag-tag bursts of sound and slapstick.

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Revolutionary: Isadora Duncan’s Words, Music, Dance
Harman Center - Forum

Remaining Performances:
Sunday, July 13 @ 5:30 PM; Sunday, July 20 @ 6 PM
Sunday, July 24 @ 7 PM; Saturday, July 26 @ 1 PM

They say: “Join Word Dance Theater in their multi-media production of the life and times of Isadora Duncan, the great American artist and revolutionary. Using Duncan’s own words, actress Sarah Pleydell embodies Isadora. WDT dancers provide brilliant reconstructions of Isadora Duncan’s choreography, and Marcia Daft creates a soundscape using the beautiful music that was the thru-line of Duncan’s life and work. Don’t miss this rare opportunity to experience one of America’s greatest geniuses.”

Brian’s take: I find it very challenging to apply words to dance. To me, they kind of kill the point.

Not that it can’t be done, as it is elegantly in the Word Dance Theater’s production at the Harman Center Forum. You can truly watch the mother modern dance give birth to the form in this homage not only to Isadora Duncan, but to movement itself.

The piece is divided into segments of language and segments of dance, taken directly from Duncan’s texts and her choreography, respectively. Sarah Pleydell, who compiled the script, narrates as Duncan from a plush divan. The director has given her very little opportunity to move–she lounges nearly the entire performance–but save a few weak moments, Pleydell commands Duncan’s words with masterful gestures and thoughtfully measured delivery.

And then there are the dances, performed by Cynthia Word (also artistic director), Valerie Durham, and Ingrid Zimmer, which, over the course of eleven pieces, run the emotional gamut from joy to childhood to love to patriotism to mourning to communism. (Well, I’m not sure if communism is officially part of the “emotional gamut,” but I digress.) Some are better than others–and a few are spectacular–but each resonates vibrantly with Pleydell’s soliloquy and, even more impressively, her intent gaze as she watches the movement unfold before her.

One number bears particular mention, although I hate to demean it by even calling it a “number.” In 1913, Duncan’s two children drowned in the Seine. At this moment in the show, Word stands center stage and performs a painfully physical ave in low light. Her gestures are revealed so slowly, so precisely, and at such a microscopic level, that you barely even catch her moving. She refuses to utter an extraneous breath. Draped with a simple white linen, she might as well be a trembling marble statue. Word never moves her feet, and so the faintest tilt of the head or quiver of the torso sends a ripple of sorrow through the theater. Duncan often spoke of ever-elusive “ideals” in movement, gesture, and the human form. Word would certainly have made the master proud.

See it if: “You’re just not a dance person” (I can hear you saying it from here, and that’s no excuse).

Skip it if: You find yourself easily irritated by less-than-ideal recordings of classical music, no matter how talented the dancers moving to them are.