The Chalk Boy
Warehouse – Beyond

Remaining Performances:
Thursday, July 17, 6:30pm
Friday, July 18, 9:00pm
Saturday, July 19, 9:00pm
Sunday, July 20, Noon

They say: “Beneath its boring facade a Northwest town hides a nasty secret, and the girls from local high school’s Christian Athletes Club are here to tell you about it. Murder, the occult, algebra – this is a deathly black comedy that punches as hard as your high school bully.”

Glen’s take: The above blurb — and the opening four minutes or so — would seem to augur a campy, over-the-top sendup of high school malaise, but Joshua Conkel’s The Chalk Boy has got more River’s Edge than Heathers in its dramaturgical DNA. And, much as I love me some “School’s-cancelled-today-because-Kurt-and-Ram-killed-themselves-in-a-repressed-homosexual-suicide-pact!” goodness, Conkel’s choice to ground his tale in a grubbier, less outsized reality makes for an admirably layered, thoughtful and slyly funny evening.

As you watch, you get the distinct sense that a different company could take the same script and have a sillier, campier time with it. Conkel’s play is built on the shifting alliances of four high school girls, and it wouldn’t take much to reduce them to types — Bitch, Witch, Jesusfreak, Dyke-in-Training — that would make for fish-in-a-barrel comic fodder. Certainly there are jokey elements (Wiccan ceremonies performed with cake servers and battery-operated candles) aplenty. And who knows: Wednesday night’s premiere was sparsely attended, and I suppose it’s possible that, given a larger crowd and bigger response, the actors might feel compelled to push their performances bigger. But I don’t think so. And I certainly hope not.

At the heart of The Chalk Boy is Jennifer Harder’s Penny, a prematurely weathered young woman who convinces herself she’s in love with a boy who’s gone missing. By imbuing Penny with a soft edge of world-weariness — she’s not so much alienated as she is disappointed — Harder helps keep the production rooted in the specfic; the other actors seem to key off her efforts. Kate Huisentruit is possessed of a killer deadpan, Mary Catherine Donnelly brings something small and true to each of the several roles she assumes, and Marguerite French is careful to supply her angry bitch Trisha with humanizing self-awareness.

Not every element emerges clearly; the sense of foreboding Conkel attempts to create — he wants you to feel the threat hanging over his characters, to sense the Something that waits for them in the darkness at the edge of town. It’s not there yet, but could be, with a bit of massaging. And I can’t shake the impression that Conkel doesn’t really stick the dismount — his ending is more of a stopping — but those are quibbles.

See it if: Um… you have a pulse? Look, I got nothing: Just see it, is all.

Skip it if: You were totally on your high school’s Spirit Week Committee, and Crazy Hat Day? Your idea.

This past Thursday, the stars, architects and friends of Fringe converged under the Baldacchino for an evening of romance and revelry. Watch in awe as a gaggle of performers spill the beans on their upcoming shows.

Cheers!

Trouble viewing? Try the YouTube version.

Unintended Consequences: Three One-Act Comedies
Warehouse – Next Door

Remaining Performances:
Saturday, July 19 @ 8:30pm
Wednesday, July 23 @ 6:30pm
Saturday, July 26 @ 3:30pm

They say: “What the hell were they thinking? The delightfully perplexed characters in this trio of one-acts cope with the unintended consequences that ensue when the INS investigates illegal trafficking in undocumented genies, the Devil issues an RFP for a consultant, and an agenda-less retreat ends improbably, yet inevitably, in romance.”

Glen’s take: The laudable mission statement of the recently formed Senior Moments Theatre Company (”To encourage and support emerging dramatists over 55″) probably had a lot to do with the demographic makeup of Unintended Consequences‘ Sunday afternoon crowd, which, I merely note, skewed a bit more, ah, Applebee’s-five-o’clock-dinner-rush than Fringe audiences generally do.

Look: I get that satire is inherently pushy. It is, after all, just Funny With Something to Prove. But the trick of it — the way you get audiences to swallow your pill — is to spend more time worrying about the Funny than the Something to Prove. Satire goes wrong when its makers are so keen to poke you in the ribs that they neglect to tickle them.

Take the first two playlets in Unintended Consequences, both of which suffer from being overwritten and broadly performed. That, as it turns out, is a near deadly combination, because by insisting so shrilly and laboriously on their central satirical premises (Genies = Illegal Immigrants and Consultants = Satan), both plays reveal how little value they place on things like character, dialogue and recognizable emotion.

But as soon as the third and final one-act starts, something happens. Something surprising, and really kinda great. Even though its satiric premise isn’t particularly fresh (just some familiar pokes at meeting facilitators and org-speak), even though it’s written by the same guy responsible for the genie comedy you sat through earlier, that last play hits you like a revelation, for two reasons: Karen Lange, as a hopeful Arts Administrator, and Washington Improv Theater regular Stuart Scotten, as a hesitant meeting attendee. These two performers concentrate on creating characters — rounded, funny, utterly believable characters — and allow themselves to find the script’s jokes, instead of lunging at them.  Scotten in particular offers a master class in what offhand, unforced comic timing can do for a production; as a result, precisely 33.3% of Unintended Consequences is easily the best thing in Fringe I’ve seen so far.

See if if: You are possessed of both a Zen-like patience and a fondness for jokes about media consultants.

Skip it if: You’d rather catch Scotten at WIT.

Abe Lincoln: A One-Man Show
at Cole Studio

Remaining Performances:
Saturday, July 19 @ 3pm
Friday, July 25 @ 7pm
Saturday, July 26 @ 8pm

They say: “You probably know that Abe Lincoln was the 16th US president, but did you know he was a joke teller? See Abe tell his amusing anecdotes and relate some of his historical decision-making moments before your very eyes, moments before he leaves for Ford’s Theatre to meet his fate.”

Suzyn’s take: I’m fairly new to theatrical reviewing, but I’m certain it’s never a good thing when a reviewer of a comedy act has “Fozzie Bear” underlined multiple times in her notebook. Regrettably, this is the case for my notes on Scott Renz’s “Abraham Lincoln: A One-Man Show.” From the first minutes of the show, when Renz told a joke about how a lady with a feathered hat who fell down reminded him of a duck because she had “feathers on her head and was down on her behind,” I was exchanging what-the-fuck looks with everyone else in the room under the age of forty.

The old people, however, laughed consistently throughout the entire show.

I was sitting in front of a cranky-sounding couple in perhaps their late fifties. Moments before the show, the husband had looked around the performance space, which is essentially a room with chairs and benches, and observed:

“We could turn our sub-basement into a theatre.”

His wife blandly responded “They’d have a heck of a walk from the metro.”
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Revenge of the Cat-Headed Baby and Other True Tales about Life and Death
Cole Studio

Remaining Performances:
Sunday, 7/13, 3pm
Wednesday, 7/16, 6:30pm
Saturday, 7/19, 9pm
Saturday, 7/26, 5pm
Sunday, 7/27, 4pm

They say: “Revenge… uses conversational storytelling as a vehicle for exploring 5 unique viewpoints on life and death. Ride along as we regale you with tales of war, procreation, chainsaws, telenovelas, and of course the Cat-Headed Baby.  This program follows in the fine footsteps of last year’s smash, Chocolate Jesus.”

Glen’s take: The SpeakeasyDC folks know their marketing.  “Washington’s premier storytelling organization” has two shows in Fringe this year, and one of them — the returning Chocolate Jesus at Chief Ike’s — already looks to be selling out all over again.  But before there was word of mouth, there was that kickass title, which you can bet put more than a few curious asses in seats.

We may be looking at Jesus Redux here, if the crowd packed into the teensy Borderstan artist’s studio for Cat-Headed Baby is anything to go by.  More than a few of my fellow fringegoers owned up to being drawn there by the name, and if the show doesn’t exactly deliver on its fanciful titular promise, it does supply a healthy dose of more prosaic — as in factual — pleasures.

Five performers, five true autobiographical tales, told well.  No, not simply told — shaped.  And that’s the key: as each story unfolds, you find yourself noting how well each storyteller directs the flow of the narrative, wrasslin’ it into submission with a gesture, callback, or well-timed pause.  The particular subjects in question (in order: girlhood, war, boyhood, cancer, girlhood again, and birth control) don’t do the experience justice, because the performers aren’t interested in such abstractions — they just wanna tell you a story.  Does the fact that these tales have been so carefully molded occasionally cause them to come off a bit … well, canned?  Is the “my parents say crazy things in funny accents!” school of comedy represented?  And do the performers, in the interest of investing their stories with “heart”, occasionally stray into the decidedly un-Fringey territory of Moral Uplift?  Yes, yes and yes.  But you’ll forgive ‘em.

See it if: Even four years after his death, your heart still bears a Spalding Gray-shaped hole.

Skip it if: You prefer your Fringe fare more in the nihilist/deconstructionist/vivisectionist vein, thank you very much.

I just snuck into a rehearsal for METRO: In the State of Mind over in the Baldacchino.  First off, the space looks ultra-colorful and ultra-cool (check out the photos if you don’t believe me).  Only when a helicopter whirls by overhead do you remember you’re in DC.  

METRO is presented by the Pointillism Jazz Consort from Copley, Ohio.  I wondered what exactly pointillism jazz was, and from the bits and pieces I saw, it seems to involve creating a rich, textured soundscape of voices and recordings.  It certainly isn’t singing, but it isn’t Stomp either. One performer makes a “schh” noise at a certain rhythm; another performer syncopates with that; still others chime in behind and above and from the sidelines.  This all happens over a layer of Metro-inspired din: bells, whistles, door-opening announcements, general choo-choo chugging, &tc., &tc.  

The show opens tonight at 7:00 PM, and I imagine this is one of (if not the) first time the cast has gotten to rehearse in the space, if only because the space wasn’t really built until this week.  This is what Fringe is all about: guerilla theater.  Get up there and do it.  Make it work.  Cut that line out if you need to, create that tableau in half the space we rehearsed in, yell that “schh” noise at twice the normal volume to compete with New York Avenue traffic, stop wiping that sweat off your brow and just nail it now because godammit we open in 2 and a half hours.  

And to think, this kind of stuff is going on with 120 productions across the city, if not today, then at some afternoon in the next couple of weeks.  Talk about a state of mind.  

Dear Lovely Fringe People:

Yes, Fringe is all about breaking down walls.

Yes, we stiff-necked media types welcome the opportunity Fringe offers us to escape our sad little cubicles and move among you, the creatively inspired.

Yes, we are delighted to meet you outside Fringe venues, to hear about your show, perhaps even to have a drink with you while discussing your tortured creative process.

But please — and I say “please,” but I mean “ferf*ck’ssakewhatwereyouthinking?” — do not feel the need to call our mobile phones, even if you’ve managed to track down our numbers, and leave voice mails pleading with us to come and see your Fringe productions.

You may be reasonably certain that such appeals will not have the desired effect.

No names will be named here. Unless, um, it happens again.

That is all.

First, the bad news: In its third year, the Capital Fringe Festival will have to get by without Courtney.

Ah, Courtney. Courtney, whose outré outfits, brassy personality, and shameless sidewalk busking helped draw audiences in droves to her one-woman shows.

Courtney, who last year successfully sent up both Barbarella and Cosmo in a single solo evening.

Courtney who, in the Fringe & Purge confessional at the 2007 opening-night party, cheerfully told the camera about a Fringe fling she’d had the year before with local theatergeek … oh, let’s leave him alone. It was a confessional, after all.

So a moment of silence, if you please, for the dearly departed Courtney, who’s not returning to Fringe — and whose last name we will tactfully omit here — because she’s apparently found domestic bliss in the Twin Cities. God bless her.

But fret not, Fringe devotees: Chocolate Jesus is back, presumably because one sold-out Fringe run in 2007 makes a fringer hungry for another one in 2008.

Slash Coleman is back, apparently looking a lot like Jesus, with an honest-to-God grew-it-himself beard and a show whose title involves the phrase “Big Matzo Balls.”

The indefatigable Hilary Kacser is back, marketing a new show “from veteran Capital Fringe hitmakers” — which, you know, more power to you, sister. It’s nice, in a town that didn’t have a fringe festival until 24* months ago, that we’ve got veteran fringe hit-makers to call our own.

In all, 40-odd Fringe acts are repeat offenders. And 40 percent of this year’s 104 acts call the District of Columbia home. Another 20 percent hail from the Maryland and Virginia suburbs.

Those are numbers that CapFringe Executive Director Julianne Brienza rattles off without hesitation — she’s efficient that way, to the point of being a little scary sometimes — and with a kind of pride.

More stats Brienza seems pleased to pimp:

- Fringe is nearly 30 percent bigger, up from 84 presenting artists last year.

- Permanent year-round staff is 30 percent bigger, too, up from 2 to 3. Total festival-month staff: 37, including production management, box office personnel, venue managers, an uber-venue manager to wrangle those ven

- The festival spans 18 days this year, July 10-27, up from 11 — and even if you discount the two Mondays and two Tuesdays when Fringe will take a breather (unlike in past years), there are 14 performance days. Again, almost a 30-percent increase.

Also: One two-year lease on Fringe’s first-ever semi-permanent home. Which was infested, in true fringe tradition, with what Brienza likes to describe as “fierce, man-eating rats.”

(No, seriously: They were so mean they fought back when staffers poked ‘em with sticks. So big and so numerous they reportedly unnerved even developer Doug Jemal, whose company controls the property — and when a D.C. landlord thinks twice about a building tour, you know you’ve got vector control issues.)

Fort Fringe, as Brienza & Co. like to call it, is in the old A.V. Ristorante building at the corner of 6th Street and New York Avenue, NW, behind a gaudy new Fringe Festival awning and next to a towering white marquee that’s been dubbed the Baldacchino. (That would be the fancy white thing in the picture above.)

That tent’ll be an open-air venue and bar, home to some of the festival’s louder acts (they’ll be competing with traffic noise, after all) and to Thursday’s opening-night bash.

Indoors at Fort Fringe: a newly built black-box space, in what apparently used to be an olive pantry, that’ll be available for rent to performing artists all year round.

As for the art? Well, it’s Fringe, so who the hell knows? “Unjuried, risk-taking, independent,” and whatnot. That’s the accentuate-the-positive approach, anyway.

If you’re looking for real-time guidance, I’ll be weighing in — along with several City Paper collaborators and a select cadre of guest reviewers (you’ll be meeting them shortly) — here at Fringe & Purge.

We’ll serve up quick-hit reviews, explainers, reminders, last-minute news, video interviews, and more — in fact, you can already watch highlights from last week’s boozy Fringe Preview night at RFD.

So visit early, visit often, and don’t be afraid to chime in. It’s Fringe, after all: Unjuried, risk-taking, independent — and this year, as user-generated as we can make it.

*Originally that said “48 months,” but I was thinking “two years.” No, really, I swear. C’mon, I’m an arts critic: Math hurts. Back to corrected sentence.

Next: Of Buttons, Rules, and Other Possibly Annoying Fringe Phenomena

On July 2nd at RFD’s, the beer flowed mightily and the crowd went nuts over some sneak peeks at this year’s festival.

Read about it here; watch it below.

Trouble viewing? Try the YouTube version of this video.

Last night at RFD in Chinatown, a smattering of Fringe productions presented short segments from their shows, and I have to say that on the whole it was pretty impressive. So as you’re sifting through the festival guide, wondering how on earth you’re going to choose from 120 different productions, here are some standouts from the preview. Keep in mind, however, that last night was only a small handful of this year’s performances. What are you looking forward to? What else do we Fringe & Purgers need to see?

7 (x1) Samurai
David Gaines
Mr. Gaines may hawk his show as “An Epic Tale…told by an idiot,” but during the 7 minutes I witnessed last night, it became uproariously clear that this man is no idiot. Dressed as part street-pantomime part Japanese warrior, Gaines was riveting as he moved seamlessly among his manifold nonspeaking characters. This is serious, sidesplitting, mesmerizing stuff, and to see one man sustain it for 45 minutes is a feat I refuse to miss.

Slave Narratives Revisited
Mosaic Theatre Productions
Talk about a powerhouse: Lary Moten, in two tantalizingly short monologues, had everyone in RFD’s back room transfixed last night. He transformed that space twice in 5 minutes: first into an antebellum southern crossroads, and then into a Montgomery bus in 1956. There were some truly sublime (and deeply funny) moments, and if this is what 5 minutes in a bar feels like, well then I can’t wait to see the real thing.

Check out a few more suggestions after the jump.

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