For now, the party’s still on, so come on down to the tent:

Fringefolk,

Sure, we’ve seen a fair bit of theater, sweated buckets in some overheated venues, learned to turn hangovers into inspiration, and covered 88 shows so far (make that 100 after tomorrow!). No big deal, right? But we can’t be everywhere at all times—just ask this individual—so we rely on you all to keep us honest.

Let us know what you’re loving, what you’re loathing, and what we’ve missed. Our ears, and this blog, are yours.

*That old-school engraving above? William Hogarth’s “Lame theater.” We think it’s neat.

Yes, the venues are hot; we’ve all watched drops of persperation fly from performers’ noses every time they turn their heads, describing graceful, albeit funky, arcs over the footlights. Let’s just remember that as uncomfortable as you feel — sitting there in the dark, fanning yourself with your program like a pasha — the performers have it worse, by an order of magnitude.  Or at least, once you factor in costumes, lights and physical exertion, by a good 10 degrees Farhenheit.

But that comes with the territory.  Herewith, we honor those who’ve given their lives, or at least their ability to thumb-wrestle for a while, to Fringe.

Our first honoree is hardcore, people.

Who: Lynn-Jane Foreman, actor

Show: Missing Pages

How: Scripted onstage tussle becomes unscripted onstage fall. A nasty one.

Didn’t have room for it in the review, but wanted to honor Foreman’s grit.  She takes a spill, landing on her tailbone, smacking her head against the stage.  Does she take even a beat to gather herself?  To take a breath, to shake it off?  She does not.

She’s back in the scene immediately — delivering her lines sitting up on the floor until getting helped to her feet.  Play goes on for a bit, during which time she shows not a trace of discomfort.  Has some difficulty leaving stage after the curtain call, and the call goes up for a doctor.  She is driven to the emergency room.

Diagnosis:  Concussion, broken thumb.

I am reliably informed that she’s doing all right, and will be back for tonight’s performance and the others.  (I am also informed that Fringe has added a second air conditioner to the Redrum venue, which will be a relief to her fellow performers, especially poor Christopher Guy Thorn, who spends the show in a heavy army jacket.)

You got a nomination for the Fringe Hall of Ouchy Fame?  Someone faint from the heat, slip in a pool of their own sweat, or just spill your beer at the Baldacchino?  Tell us about it below.

Big guns: Robert Cole’s ‘The Thought’ arrives at Fort Fringe.

Ah, ’tis truly the Fringe season: The performances haven’t started yet, but the newest round of Button-bitching has!

Also the griping, especially among the city’s more established actors, about CapFringe’s tight schedules and sometimes improvised technical setups.

(We’re not naming names, and we can’t link it ’cause it’s on a non-public Facebook page. But trust us when we tell you that one performer’s recent status update went like this: “[Name] is still hoping the folks at Fringe will pony up answers to the technical questions they were asked BEFORE Thursday’s 2 hour (yes TWO whole hours, folks) tech [rehearsal].”)

I’m tempted to respond with a big, sarcastic “Waaaaah,” and to point out that as recently as Monday, festival exec-direc Julianne was posting Facebook photos of her crew working sweatily and swiftly to finish half-built venues. I mean, like we (sorta) said last year, it’s Fringe, folks: How they gonna answer a tech question if there’s no tech installed yet?

On the other hand: If I were that actor, with that reputation, doing that punishingly tough show? I might be a little jumpy, too.

So yeah, welcome back, celebrants and critics and carping perfectionists alike, to the mild insanity that is Capital Fringe. The public crazy starts tomorrow, with first-show honors split between repeat-offender Titus X (first produced in D.C. way back in 2002, I think) and Cover Me In Humanness, a brand-new show inspired by a Degas ballerina and a Kevin Bacon movie. (They’re both in tomorrow’s 5 p.m. slot.)

While Julianne & Co have been hoisting the giant sculptures into place — word is that installing some public art might help grease the skids for that keep-the-tent-open-’til 1-a.m. request that’s still pending with the city — we’ve been mucking about behind the scenes here on the blog.

We’ve welcomed some returning guest bloggers and indoctrinated a few new ones into the cult of Fringe & Purge. (Item One in the catechism: Try not to arrive smelling of beer, leave the theater early, and then trash the show — it will annoy the Fringers.)

In a minute: The first of many introductions from the voices you’ll be hearing here at Fringe & Purge this year.  For now: A hat-tip to one of those voices — returning blogger Brett Abelman, who’s done me a solid by putting together a ridiculously comprehensive quick-take on this year’s shows.  In four (!) parts. Starting with a handy seven-part (!!) taxonomy of Fringe Show Types.

(Brett, seriously: You have too much free time.)

Happy Fringing, everybody. See you at the opening-night bash — Thursday night, from 8 until whenever. I’m told there will be banjos.

If this is your first visit to Fringe & Purge, welcome! If you’re an F&P vet, welcome back! If you stalked us last year, for the love of God, please stop!

“But prithee,” you might ask, “what the hell is Fringe & Purge?” An excerpt from last year’s propaganda:

Want to know what show is hot? Fringe & Purge blog. Want to know what show has the most nudity? Fringe & Purge blog. Want to tap into the opening-night buzz? Fringe & Purge blog. Want to know where the party is? Fringe & Purge blog. Want to know what the hell you did at that party? Fringe & Purge blog.

Go out and fringe. Come here to purge.

So what can you expect from this year’s iteration? Well, if history is any judge….

Last year’s blog featured raves, pans, audience participation, Gonzo criticism, spontaneous prose, porn stars, blood, Socratic dialogues, dramaturgical meditations, eavesdropping, liveblogging, WTF?s, and long comment threads on the subject of nudity. Also, Oxford commas—sorry, house style.

Our review format is the “hip-shot”: off the cuff; breezy; brief. Our audience “interactivity” constitutes populism verging on anarchy: we couldn’t do what we do without your tips, opinions, rumor-mongering, verbal abuse, &c. Blogging’s a contact sport—and after all, we’re still refining our technique.

Like the festival itself, Fringe & Purge has grown up a fair bit. In 2006, Cap Fringe’s inaugural year, this blog ran under the tagline: “Trey Graham Throws Up a Blog About the Capital Fringe Festival.” Trey’s stomach has since settled down, and these days we market our offerings as “daily digests from the Capital Fringe Festival”–a rather more gastronomically salubrious tagline, if you ask me. Also, like most addictive substances, Fringe & Purge can be consumed in any number of ways. These days, we’ve got a twitter account, a newsletter, an RSS feed, &c.

So, yes, as I said: refining our technique.

Stay tuned for the good stuff. We’ve got a stellar cadre of guest-bloggers this year, as well as Trey Graham and Glen Weldon, our resident Fringe codgers gurus. So come early, come often, and brace yourselves for 18 days of…let me see [riffles through dog-eared Fringe program] … ah, yes: “Unjuried, risk-taking, independent performing arts.”

Trouble viewing? Try the YouTube version.

So, we’re winding down, eh?  Which seems like a good time to start asking big-picture questions.
So tell us:

How did Fringe — not the shows, but the festival itself — work for you as an audience member this year? As an artist?

What are your thoughts on the venues? On the schedule?

On the artists who participated, and on those who didn’t?

On the Baldacchino, and the bar staff, and the dreaded Button?

So it’s been a while since I did anything other than write up a show, eh? And surely you all, no matter how high-minded your approach to Fringe, expect a certain amount of trash-talking here at Fringe & Purge. 

(I’ve got an excuse, involving my sister, my nephews, and a beach house on the Isle of Palms. Hope y’all had a similarly good week.)

But I’m back in the Fringe groove now, so let’s address that dish deficit. 

Speaking of which, we’ll get all up in Julianne’s business in a minute. But before we throw stones, a note about our own glass house: 

Performance-Us Interruptus - One of Fringe & Purge’s guest bloggers ducked out partway through a show earlier this week, then panned it royally here on the blog. A certain number of the commentariat was outraged — as was one of the show’s cast, who sent me a tart e-mail.

Among the bullet-point complaints (certain paraphrasal liberties have been taken) in that note:

• Ditching mid-show is disrespectful to the cast, the crew, the Fringe Ideal, and anyone who sat dutifully through Hot Feet.
• Other festivals insist that reviewers/judges ”stay until the bitter end of any assigned show — no matter how bad.” 
• Dude complained in his review that the show had no story — but he had left before the story “really had a chance to begin.”
• Y’all should really send somebody else to re-review. And maybe fire the putz.

Now, while we’re sometimes flippant here at Fringe & Purge, we do take this stuff seriously. The City Paper once dismissed a contributing writer who filed a review without telling either her readers or her editor that she’d left the show at intermission. I don’t see why a similar standard ought not to obtain here.

But our contributor did disclose that he’d bailed — disclosed in the review itself, in fact. 

And while I’m open to argument about whether it’s kosher to complain about the weakness of a show’s bones when you haven’t stuck around to assess every last metatarsal, our blogger reports that he stayed for 40 minutes of a show that runs an hour and ten. Which doesn’t strike me as outrageous.

Also: I’m of the belief that respect for the artists or no, it’s within the pale for a critic to leave a show that’s not going well. It’s hard to say when it’s justified, and it’s not something I’d do every week. But bottom line, if you’re convinced that no amount of basting is gonna save a turkey, it’s OK to hit the Eject button. (Not to mix a metaphor, or anything.)

Should our guest blogger not have filed a review at all? Not entirely my call. Blog editor Brian Reed has this to say: 

“I thought it was a very funny and particularly honest review (that he discloses his early departure both earns him all this flack but also espouses a certain integrity), and therefore didn’t worry too much about posting it.  Since then, as you know, several people have responded either with outrage or their own appraisals of the show.”

Indeed: By my estimation, Power House has now gotten more attention on this blog than 9/10ths of the other Fringe shows. And you know what they say about publicity, no-such-thing-as-bad department.

As for the re-reviewing: Without wishing to suggest that the show was owed a second look, I draw your attention to the comments section of the original post. Brett Abelman, who’s one of our other guest bloggers, also took in a performance, and he’s offered up his thoughts in a longish comment.  Which we hope the show’s other partisans will also feel free to do.

One last pair of observations: Dan Owen, the offending guest blogger, strikes me as a smart, funny guy. Works for a big honkin’ international-development organization, has traveled the world, seems like a no-bullshit sort.

But I also know that Shawn Northrip and Shirley Serotsky, the writer and director of Power House, aren’t just f–cking about. They’ve been Fringe heavies since Year One, and between Titus! The Musical, Lunch, The Musical and The Many Adventures of Trixie Tickles, they’ve done their share of entertaining, button-pushing, balls-to-the-wall work.

So I’m inclined to chalk this one up to chacun à son goût – and to point out that taking a chance on shows that may not appeal to your taste is, after all, what Fringe is all about. 

Rehearsalus Interruptus – Heard a hilarious story one night under the Baldacchino: Apparently the Fine Wine Players were rehearsing in a vacant Capitol Hill townhouse, and something about their enthusiasm alarmed the neighbors. Who called the cops. Who — according to the version I heard — arrived with guns drawn, thinking they were responding to a domestic-violence incident.

Fine Wine’s Charlene James-Duguid didn’t mention unholstered weaponry (of any sort) when she called me back to confirm the incident. But she did commend the MPD on their diligence.

And she said that when she explained to the boys in blue that her troops were prepping a show for Fringe, the centurions didn’t miss a beat: “Well, we’ll have to see that,” the officer reportedly said. 

Naked-ness Interruptus - As you may have heard, one early performance of The Naked Party ran a touch long. So long that Fringe staff turned up the house lights and shooed everyone out.

As one Fringe-goer tells us:

“So now you have these actors, on stage, nude. And they immediately break character. The women covered themselves with their hands and then ran for their clothes …. The men stood a little like a “deer in the headlights” …. 

Ironic, that, in a show that uses nudity as a metaphor for vulnerability — and that seems to be at least partly about overcoming shyness.

I got a call that night from an outraged audience member — a DC lawyer friend, whose response was along the lines of: “Dammit, we were just getting to the denouement, and I want to know what happened.” That Fringe-goer, who titled her e-mail “Best Fringe Incident Yet,” alerted CP arts editor Mark Athitakis a couple of days later.

I’d have blogged about all this earlier, but y’know, beach house and all.  

Still, I checked in with Julianne, who pointed out that based on the show’s tech-rehearsal timings, they were on target to run over by about 20 minutes — and that other shows were lined up to load in at that venue.

“Think of the poor venue manager,” Julianne pleaded. “The show after this we would have had to hold, and the one after that. That would have made more people pretty pissed.”

Then she noted that all Fringe fests have similar don’t-blow-your-time-slot rules, chiefly to keep the trains from running completely off the tracks.  And she noted in LARGE letters that that night’s audiences were offered refunds. 

For his part, Naked Party writer-director Jason Schlafstein did a double-back mea culpa with a half twist. 

He and his cast had rehearsed with an invited audience, he said, but never with a real one — and crowd reaction added time. And there was apparently a miscommunication with Fringe: the festival staff had booked x minutes of time, and the Naked partiers were under the impression that they had x-plus-five.

(Forgive the algebra, he was talking fast.)

Schlafstein stresses that he takes full responsibility, that he was mortified, and that he and his gang aren’t sticking any pins in their Julianne doll. 

(Anymore. No, no — I said that, not him.) 

That very night, he says, “I went home and sent out a bunch of cuts to the actors.” Took 10 minutes out of the show. And since then, they’ve been playing to ”pretty much universally positive reviews.” 

And near-sold-out houses, Schlafstein says — so if you’d like to see it, you might want to book your seats now. 

Happy Fringing,

Trey

Remaining Performances:
Friday, July 18 @ 7pm
Sunday, July 20 @ 12:30pm
Saturday, July 26 @ 3pm
Sunday, July 27 @ 12:30pm

They say: “Ethan Now tells the story of the Lansdown brothers – Ethan, successful investment banker with a smart and beautiful wife, and Bradley, struggling writer who has “never even had a girlfriend.” Brought together at their parent’s [sic] beach house for their father’s funeral, this apparently ideal family proves to be anything but.”

Glen’s take: It’s useful to separate Ethan Now (the written play) from Ethan Now (the Fringe staging) and here’s why:  The play itself? A fairly conventional bit of business in the dysfunctional-WASPy-family mode that doesn’t go particularly Fringey until about six minutes to the end (and even then only kinda-sorta.)

The physical production, on the other hand, is pure Fringe from the get-go, inasmuch as it’s mounted in a sweltering church basement with notably lousy acoustics (seriously: unless the actors face downstage front and shout — something most of this tentative, small-voiced cast is reluctant to do — entire monologues get swallowed up in a din of echoes).

Director/author James L. Beller, Jr. seems to know what he wants to say about the nature of fraternal rivalry and sexual frustration, but he hasn’t yet supplied Ethan Now with enough structure to say it clearly.  As a result, the play hits the same beats repeatedly, a nice, well-acted monologue by the boys’ mother (Susan Holliday) goes on too long, and those last six minutes simply aren’t built strongly enough to support the weight they’re expected to.

See it if: You can bring along headphones and a shotgun mike.

Skip it if: You think sitting in a church basement listening to someone complain about his dysfunctional family sounds too much like an AA meeting.