FlagBoy

Remaining performances:
Sunday, July 26 at 5 pm

They say: FlagBoy, a true and authentic coming-of-age story about family, friends, and HIV. Cornelius Jones Jr., a young southern black boy, explores his sexual identity as he navigates from the urban worlds of Virginia and D.C. to NYC.

Aaron’s take: It takes a good deal of courage to open up one’s life to an audience of strangers. And in some ways, Cornelius Jones’ life is a profile in courage. But I doubt he would describe it that way. More than anything else, FlagBoy is about coming to terms with who you are—and what’s impressive is Jones’ ability to transform that self-awareness into a frank, funny, and revealing one-man show.

There’s no overarching narration or exposition in FlagBoy. Rather, we’re treated to a series of vignettes that take place over the course of Jones’ life. He plays, at various times, his parents, his marching band teacher, his romantic interests, and the anonymous boys who snicker at his homosexuality. But most of the time, he’s himself: a five-year-old budding diva singing in front of the mirror with his mother’s makeup on; a ten-year-old experiencing his first sexual encounter; a fifteen-year old venturing wide-eyed into a gay club; and, finally, a young adult coping with an HIV diagnosis and a volatile sense of self-worth.

By simply being himself, Jones manages to avoid the pitfalls of moralism and self-righteousness. His light tone keeps things fun, but it also holds the audience at arm’s length. You probably won’t leave FlagBoy with a deep sense of indignation over prejudice or a burning desire to change the world—it’s just not that kind of play. Instead, you’re likely to walk away appreciating the guts it takes to lay it all on the line after so many years of frustration and confusion.

See it if: You never tried on your mother’s bra as a kid and admired yourself in the mirror. That’s just wrong. But, uh, it’s sort of comforting to know that some other people did too and turned out okay.

Skip it if: You found the “See it if” in any way disturbing. This isn’t the show for you.

The Attack of the Big Angry Booty

The Bedroom

Remaining Performance: Sunday, July 26 at 7:00 pm.

They say: Dieting sucks!  Whether it’s 1 pound or 100 pounds losing weight is never easy.  Come experience the roller coaster ride on the one hellish trip that we all will eventually have to take, getting in shape.

Ann’s take: Have you ever gone out for happy hour with your coworkers, and there’s that one colleague who won’t stop with his stories about the various and ridiculous customer interactions he had that day… and you laugh politely but you’re really thinking, ‘it is not a unique experience to have to deal with difficult people and these stories really aren’t that funny’… and he’s not letting anyone else have the floor during his little stand-up routine… so you just sit there, for an hour, silently sipping your half-priced vodka and soda until you can finally blurt out that you have to leave immediately to pick up your dry cleaning before it closes?  Les Kurkendaal is that coworker, and The Attack of the Big Angry Booty is that happy hour, minus the cheap drinks.

This one-man show is a mishmash of vignettes about the clients Kurkendaal met during his two-year stint as a Jenny Craig counselor in West Hollywood commingled with the man’s own tale of losing 20 pounds. While this isn’t necessarily bad material, Kurkendaal never quite hits a satisfying punch line.  Instead, we get the first few minutes of a stereotypical dieting story—fear of exercise, lack of fast-food willpower, etc.—before Kurkendaal abruptly moves on, having failed to bring the previous anecdote to any sort of fruition.  Lengthy explanations of Jenny Craig protocol and meandering lectures on improper dieting practices further slow the piece.

Script aside, Kurkendaal is a charismatic performer.  While his delivery could use some polishing—there were frequent stalls while he gathered his thoughts—his expressive eyes and camp-counselor enthusiasm were engaging: The reenactments of his clients’ temper tantrums will take you back to your days as a summer retail associate!  Plus, he’s a fountain of useful diet tips.  Did you know a vodka and soda only has 100 calories?  Hundreds of dollars in Jenny Craig dieting advice awaits you for the bargain cost of a $15 ticket.

See it if: You’re ready for the next Richard Simmons (sans shorty shorts and tank top).

Skip it if:  You have to pick up your dry cleaning.

Sezze Sun

Remaining performances:
7/24 @ 6:30pm; 7/25 @ 9pm; 7/26 @ 4:30pm

They say: A struggling actor invites friends and family to his parents’ Italian villa for great food, drink and festivities. But he has ulterior motives. Secrets are revealed and covertly filmed in this multi-media exploration of the digitalization and destruction of relationships.

Sheffy says: MTV is filming its 23rd season of The Real World right here in Washington, in Dupont Circle. What’s most surprising is not that the Fringer to your left might soon be a cable TV mini-celebrity, but that this show is still on the air. Who would’ve thought that broadcasting the “unscripted” lives of seven co-habitating strangers would spark a new genre called “Reality TV?” And after Big Brother, Survivor, Jon & Kate, doesn’t the concept ever get stale?

Well how about this play’s angle:  You lock a motley crew of characters in an Italian villa and videotape the unfolding drama without their knowledge. You can probably already guess some of the skeletons that come out when illuminated by the Sezze sun. The conniving mastermind behind the plot is the petulant Ben (Matthew Charles), a British actor-director whose egomania becomes clear in his ranting asides directly into the videocamera.

Toss into the fishbowl his ill-matched American girlfriend, who teaches economics at Oxford, his ex-girlfriend, who’s starting to have success in her own acting career, his patrician mother (played in a standout performance by Karin de la Penha), the flaming hairdresser uncle (humorously played by William Brookes) who mixes his meds and limoncello to set up the requisite gay come-on scene, and, inexplicably, Pete, an American folk-rock legend (Dan Barnhill), whose suave nonchalance reminded me of the Matthew McConaughey character in EdTV (a movie parody of reality TV). Add one more character: the ubiquitous video camera, streaming the action larger than life on the back wall in real time (well, not quite real time—there’s an irritating one-second delay).

To quote the woman sitting in front of me: “The play held my attention, but I’m not sure why.” There wasn’t enough “Drama” to merit that categorization in the Fringe guide, but Sezze earns bona fides for “Experimental,” as the concept was collaboratively developed by the ensemble through rounds of improvisation. That might explain some of the long pauses: were they timing miscues, forgotten lines, or intentional attempts to dramatize reality? Sezze might even get away with “Musical” if you count the ambient soundtrack provided by Pete’s guitar. In fact, the highlight of the show for me was his song, “Recycle newspapers, but don’t recycle your ladies.” The difference between real reality TV and this show: reality TV is more scripted and highly edited.

See it if: You’ve caught yourself making excuses to your roommate about how you were just flipping through the stations, and oh, wait, is this a reality TV show I’m watching…?

Skip it if: You’re part of the real world (and this time I’m not referring to the cast of a TV show).

Dorks on the Loose: Facey Facey Face Face

Remaining Performances:
Friday, July 24th @ 7 pm
Saturday, July 25th @ 3:15 pm
Sunday, July 26th @ 7 pm

They say:  Phaea and Becca don’t just have a face. They have two. And after last year’s Fringe success they are returning to celebrate with a new comedy show, Dorks on the Loose: Facey Facey Face Face. C’mon, you need a lift. 50 minutes

Chris says:   Laurel and Hardy.  Nichols and May.  Lemmon and Mathau.  Cheech and Chong.  Phaea and Becca.

It’s not simple matter to explain what makes a comedy duo work: personality, chemistry, timing, and intellect are merely the more obvious variables.   Loose dorks Phaea and Becca come off as an odd couple—one more conventionally tall and dorky, one at first glance too cute and cuddly for satire—but the chemistry is undeniable and the timing is spot on.  Imagine your young teenage daughter and her best friend finishing each other’s sentences, then fast forward 15 years.

Their comedy sketches have one foot in Dumb and Dumber dumbness, and one foot in brainy postmodern high jinks.  In the first sketch, Phaea and Becca are a ballerina and her instructor, each unable to stop making silly faces when they concentrate.  In the next, they’re hammy wedding planners strutting to demonstrate how not to walk as a bride.  Those and other sketches are silly for the joy of silliness.   Others could be riffs on Gödel, Escher, Bach: In an Oprah or Ellen style interview, they interview each other about the interview they’re having, asking at one point, “What are some of your favorite memories of this interview?”  It’s riotous, but it’s highbrow.

It’s amazing how much mileage they get out of saying all the same things at pretty much the same time.  In one sketch, two teenage girls scream giddily in response to everything one of them says.  They open the imaginary door.  “Are you a Mormon?”    “Are you a Mormon?”   (Squeals.)  “Are you Mitt Romney?” “Are you Mitt Romney?”  (Squeals.)   If they had poor timing this would be unbearable, but they have great timing and it’s a joy.

The act is confident without being polished.  It’s not improv, but they roll with the punches when they realize they’ve come out with the wrong prop, when one of them slips on the wet stage (there was a tremendous torrent outside the tent during the performance I saw), or when the Bachelorette Helper Robot has a cold cream malfunction.  They’re having fun and getting a kick out of themselves.

See it if:  You like the idea of SNL but wish it were funny.

Skip it if:   The idea of sitting in a tent  while drinking beer laughing turns you off.

Remaining Performances: Thursday, July 23 at 10:15 pm.  Saturday, July 25 at 7:00 pm.  Sunday, July 26 at 11:15 am.

They say: In a studio apartment, Lawrence and Joanna live in a world of their own making with Edna and Claypone.  How long can they keep real world outside?  What happens if reality comes through the door?

Ann’s take: Lanford Wilson’s Home Free gives its audience much to unravel as it follows the muddied logic of Lawrence and Joanna’s aberrant, make-believe world.  Psychological disorder drives the piece, and we have much to sort through as we piece together the mystery of what’s so scary about the outside world.  Social taboos abound in this one-act, but there is an eloquent innocence in Wilson’s deviant world, providing a nice tug-of-war on the audience’s sensibilities.

At its 1964 premiere, the piece surely touched some nerves, and viewing Wilson’s one-act in this context provides a nice period  snapshot.  But in the present time, a straight-up, standard production of the work somehow lacks the impact necessary for me to describe it as anything more than proficient.  Of course, with all of the bodacious antics and creative oddities of the Capital Fringe Festival, it’s hard to compete.  Adeptly performed by its cast, it takes few risks, rendering the piece rather unremarkable.  That said, there’s nothing here to offend the senses.  If you’re in the mood to see a solid one-act that’s maybe a little less fringe-y and a little more traditional, look no further.

See it if: You’ve been meaning to see a Lanford Wilson play.

Skip it if: You have one show left in your 110 Proof Pass, and you want to use it for a “must-see.”

Lila: The Love Story of Radha and Krishna

Remaining performances:
Jul 25th 4:15 pm

They say: Attraction, flirtation, jealousy, passion. Follow the human Radha and the god Krishna as they bask in the joy and burn in the heat of their love. The emotional quality of their story is captured beautifully through Odissi Indian classical dance.

Llewellyn’s take: It was pouring rain outside the Apothecary.  People shuffled in, soaked from head to toe, sopping wet playbills in hand.  A veritable waterfall cascaded from the ceiling in the back of the house.  The stage manager quipped that they were just trying to set the ambiance by making it more monsoon-like.  She may have been joking, but the drenched, humid conditions were perfect for what was a beautiful, intricate, and all-around amazing performance.  I can’t imagine a better way to wait out a monsoon then to watch the graceful interplay of these gorgeous women; the slow, delicate contortions alternating with the staccato raga stepwork.  Shalini Goel Agarwal’s flirtatious, mesmerizing gaze itself is reason enough to see this show.   The captivating beauty in their dress and expressive personalities had me wishing for an even plusher production—what if there were more dancers, more tapestries, real waterfalls, and a live tabla-sitar orchestra?

Some may be scared off by the prospect of classical, interpretive Indian dance.  American interpretive dance can be confusing enough by itself.  Maybe you think that the cultural barrier could only serve to alienate the audience; instead, the infectious pageantry won’t fail to enchant.  I’m not sure I completely understood the meaning even when outlined by the narrator (I think the plot was something akin to Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me”), but it didn’t really matter.  You know that it’s a dance of jealousy and passion: Radha complains to Vishnu, Vishnu appeals to Radha, they embrace, they fight, they get back together, and it repeats.  Somewhere in there, a flute gets played.  Sure, you might miss some details in this love battle of the gods while transfixed by the polyrhythmic undulations of the dance.  There are shows swimming in meaning and importance, but this one is swimming in beauty and technical skill.

See it if: You like nice things.

Skip it if: You still can’t forgive Vishnu for how he treated Shiva.

Remaining Performances
Friday, July 24th at 7:45 pm and Sunday, July 26th at 11:30 am

They say:  “Presenting in its signature classical and contemporary style with original musical scores, TMDC’s dancing is precise, athletic and theatrical. The themes run the gamut of emotions. The message may be personal or political but it’s always relevant to the times.”

Caroline’s take: Who knew presidential politics could be interpreted through traditional Indian dances?  I certainly didn’t before seeing this production of the Tehreema Mitha Dance Company, but the combination of traditional choreography with contemporary subject matter landed with surprising resonance.

The evening consists of four dances, two traditional solos and two contemporary ensemble pieces.  In each case, a brief introduction told the audience what was going on, but these were hardly necessary, since all the dancers clearly embodied their respective characters.  The first classical solo, performed and choreographed by Praneetha Akula, is about a woman exhausted by a demanding job: With rows of bells around her ankles, her motions complemented the music so well that the story became unimportant.  The same can be said for the other solo by the company’s founder, Tehreema Mitha, whose dancing overpowered the music and story perfectly.

But a dance show is supposed to be about dancing, not about daily news events, which is where this show gets a little more complicated. The two contemporary pieces are well-executed, but the accompanying stories were just a little awkward.  “Cherry Blossoms in D.C.,” a reflection on the beauty of the Tidal Basin in April in contrast with the sinister forces of politics in this city became complicated and messy.  The highlights were Akula and Meredith Hope, dressed in pink and purple to represent the blossoms; but when two other dancers enter, dressed as Secret Service agents, and begin to frisk audience members, the level of believability plummets.  Add to that a presidential character who looks like Hillary Clinton and speaks like Sarah Palin, and suddenly, the performance becomes pure agenda. The second contemporary piece, a solo by Mitha about a bi-polar homeless person, is less distracted by her message, her spastic motions representing the mania that run through this woman’s body. You understand her frustration when passersby run away…but when she keeps chanting “I used to work at Lehman Brothers,” current events supersede the motions and the audience is left pondering economics, not dance.

See it if: You want a message to correspond to each dance or want to see a cat walked on a leash.

Skip it if: You don’t want to see a Secret Service ballet.

Remaining Performances:
Friday, July 24 @
5:45 p.m.
Saturday, July 25 @ 11:45 p.m.

They say: “This is play is scar from my head through my heart to my crotch. It’s a Greek chorus wrapped inside a romantic tragedy. There is also some moments of comedy and a compulsion to move via dance yoga and/or tai chi contained within it. A tornado in the rodeo of love and obsession. With meditations on the power of positive thinking. A shogun mystery choreopoem. Unraveling samskaric imprints.” [Note: I typed exactly what was in the Fringe Guide. Exactly.]

Hilary’s take: “I don’t get it,” says K, as D and M (or maybe it was T?) pantomime their pants off, clawing at their waistlines and collars. “I don’t get it!”

That’s exactly how I felt the entire 45 minutes of Stephen Forrest Notes’ “tornado in the rodeo of love and obsession.” I weathered the storm but walked out of Fort Fringe unamazed and confused. I think the gist of the play is this: Boy meets local “it” girl and becomes obsessed with her powerful sexual energy. But this woman is not powerful at all; she is vulnerable, needy even. But she doesn’t need him. Each is searching for a fulfilment the other is painfully ill-equipped to provide.

In the end, I’m not really sure what happens, and I don’t really care. The main problem with Notes’ play is that it’s damn near impossible to figure out who’s who—what distinguishes M from T?—which means I can’t bring myself to care about their thoughts/feelings/actions in each of the convoluted, pseudo-postmodern vignettes. (That might say more about the acting than the writing, but I’ll never know for sure.) And you can forget about context clues—the only props consisted of little more than jester hats, potty-mouthed sock puppets, and an apple.

The play is a clusterfuck of ideas, and perhaps the acting was a little sub par because the performers had to unload so much other garbage (yoga, tai chi, awkward lesbian kisses, wordy monologues…) in addition to the galumphing (lack of) plot points. As the lights went up and AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” (music selection warrants an entirely separate critique) cut through the audience’s baffled silence, I just kept thinking “WTF? W. T. F.”

See it if: Hearing that the playwright studied at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics sounds like a plus.

Skip it if: Watching someone (maybe D?) devour an apple wayyy too emotionally for five inexplicable minutes—chewing through tears, laughs… pain(?)— isn’t exactly your idea of high art, or good theater. And if while you were reading On The Road you thought to yourself, “Hey, this Kerouac guy could really use fewer drugs and more editing.”

Remaining Performances:
Jul 24th 5 pm
Jul 25th 8:30 pm
Jul 26th 5 pm

They Say: A show that runs the gamut from A to D. Attention deficits, afternoon delights, American dreams, artistic differences, anxiety disorders, they’re all here. From the author of last year’s A Report of Gunfire, a comic look at the world today.

Llewellyn’s take: Of the “A.D.” items listed in the description, the emphasis should be placed on “attention deficit” and “anxiety disorders.”  There are also American Dreams and artistic differences, though I didn’t see any afternoon delights.  Instead, A.D. is a frenetic, one-woman dash through multiple personalities that weave in and out of neurotic introspections…all of it surrounding the fast-paced huck-a-buck world we live in today.  Annie Huey keeps up the tempo throughout the show with a nervous grin no matter which character she assumes, from frantic stewardess to nervous art model.

Unfortunately, this rapid change prevents Huey from ever really inhabiting or exploring any one persona—the characters all merge into one  blurred, smiling, speed-talking, hummingbird-type personality.  When the script jumps to a stand-up routine, it’s hard to realize that this comedienne isn’t just the next in a series of characters.  The comedy in that portion can be trite when it delves into Seinfeld style observational humor (e.g. “you twitter your Facebook to your flickr”), but it picks up when she starts chatting with invisible characters.  In the midst of neurotic breakdowns, she lashes out at the voices of those who are ogling and asking questions but who won’t give her a moment to think.  It’s the feminine hyper-culture version of “Stop the World – I Want to get Off”.  Sans mimes.

See it if: You think anxiety isn’t a condition; it’s more of a lifestyle choice.

Skip it if: You lost interest at “frenetic one-woman monologue”

Diamond Dead (Continued…)

The Baldacchino Gypsy Tent Bar

Remaining performances: July 25 7:30

They say: A new Maverick rises to do battle with the forces of evil in the continued adventures of the zombie rock band Diamond Dead.

Joan says: Spinal Tap meets Re-Animator in this irreverent rock opera.

Whenever you agree to see a play about a band, you wonder whether the actors can can really mount an effective band.  Well no worries here—the Landless Theatre Company hits this one right out of the graveyard.  I will be first in line the day the soundtrack becomes available.  And talk about death metal—4 out of 5 of the band members are actually dead!

As if the premise wasn’t surreal enough, the plot takes a very twisted turn as zombie Sara Palin and the former Miss California (but currently living human) Carrie Prejean crash the concert to battle evil and homosexuality.  Needless to say, the battle doesn’t end well, but the play certainly does.  As the finale says, “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.

See it if: Republicans vs. Zombies is your dream match-up.

Skip it if: You have something against necrophilia and cannibalism.