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:
July 19th at 3 pm
July 23 at 10:15 pm
July 25th at 6:15 pm

They say: “Get intimate. Enjoy an evening of conversation and poetry in this one woman show combining a dancer’s grace with language laced in feminine sensuality. Join in her discovery.”

Caroline’s take: Part monologue, part performance poetry, and part traditional Indian dance, Neelam Patel delivers a deeply personal show that attempts to find some middle ground between her American and Indian heritage.  As much as she brings the audience into her stories, the result is most therapeutic for Patel herself: Using the performance as a form of release, she shares her experiences, all of them true, as a way of connecting with her past.

The show starts with a series of monologues, beginning in infancy when Patel’s family immigrated to New Jersey.  Adolescence ensues: There are parties with boys, conflicts at school, and disagreements with her parents about Bon Jovi.  When she starts describing her need to fit in among the big-haired blondes however, the reflections turn inward and you can hear Patel reverting to her teenage mentality to tell the story.  That she is so in touch with her ideas and emotions at different times in her life is powerful and makes the show all the more poignant.

As the show proceeds, the monologues transition into performance poems that Patel admits yet more personal.  A particularly intense poem about a passionate relationship with a boyfriend goes over well, but she does not hit her stride until she fuses the aspects of both of her cultures together.  In “Nationhood,” she admits to not feeling at home in either culture—she’s at once too Indian and too American.  But instead of dwelling on the frustration, she sees her nation as the path she creates everyday.  This acceptance of her experience gives the performance even more power.

Incorporating traditional Indian dance is important to Patel (she only started performing her poems after she quit dancing due to an injury) and even though it’s nice to watch, it does not add significantly to the concept of the show.  The dancing allows the audience to step back rather than remain immersed in the stories she tells.  Really, her dances are another narrative altogether, but when each element comes together at the end, you finally understand Patel’s whole story.

See it if: You want to know more about Indian culture, laugh about coming of age in New Jersey, or enjoy Bollywood music.

Skip it if: You’re not interested in 45 minutes of serious self-reflection.

Remaining Performances:
Saturday, July 26 @ 3:00 pm
Sunday, July 27 @ 12:00 Noon

They say: “Voted “Pick of the Fringe 2007,” WEERD SISTERS brings back singer/songwriter Annie Johnstone and choreographer/poet Diana Tokaji in a feast of words, dance, live music, and song. Expect chilling beauty – voice and muscle: Raw, ripe, “funny, intense.” (Takoma Voice) With David Jernigan, jazz bass; and Mattias Rucht, drums.”

Sheffy’s take: With the clock running out on CapFringe ’08, I’ve been combing the blogs to chart a roadmap for my final few hours. Even though the alluring blurb for Crashing Home in the festival guide is right on target, I didn’t know what to expect. But Fringe is about experimenting, and I’m glad the nearly 70 people in the audience ranging in age from 7 to 70 were not deterred by the less-than-stellar review posted elsewhere. The multi-cultural WEERD SISTERS showcase musical and creative talent in a program of four unrelated pieces that feature live instrumental music, original poetry, dance, and vocals.

I must admit I’m usually inside-the-box when it comes to theater: I prefer characters with names, a plot, and at the end of the day, I expect there to be some meaning. But this was no theatre (it’s the Harman Center for the Arts). Crashing Home is more akin to a jazz concert—while I didn’t learn anything, I enjoyed each piece, and the show left me in a relaxed, peaceful mood.

Although Diana Tokaji’s vibrant energy was the glue holding everything together, the show lacked unity and focus. Yet each individual element—from Chinwe Enu’s soaring operatic voice harmonizing with Annie Johnstone’s rich alto to Tokaji’s choreography to a primal drum circle to David Jernigan’s string base—resonated with an innate beauty. The verdant costumes and lighting design and the nature video projected during the last piece imbued all with organic overtones. The silent rainstorm featured in the finale left my spirit feeling cleansed. What this show lacked in coherence, in made up for in Zen. And just like good theater, there’s plenty to discuss afterwards as everyone leaves with a different impression.

See it if: You’ve been heretofore avoiding that “experimental” genre from the festival guide because it conjures images off-beat college kids in turtlenecks and black lipgloss lying on the floor in a circle in total silence interrupted intermittently by shouts in Esperanto (and no, don’t anyone steal that idea for next year).

Skip it if: You can’t call it poetry if it doesn’t rhyme (don’t get me started on Homer’s Iliad “poem”).

That is all.

UPDATE, 11:45 p.m. – So just to revisit: I’m not going to write a full review, because I’m not sure quite where to start.  

This was one of the most out-there things I’ve seen yet at Fringe; can’t say it was good, not sure I want to say it was bad, exactly. (It had the distinct whiff of the Radical Faerie about it, and everybody needs a little Faerie dust once in a while.) So let’s leave it at mad — and perhaps spectacularly ill-advised, in a town as buttoned-up as this one. 

Of the 18 audience members who came, 12 of us survived until the end. Which was convenient, because it meant no one was left out when lead performer Huilo Marvavilla produced a dozen yellow roses and went about bestowing them upon the patrons.

The projections were intriguingly psychedelic, the soundscape much the same; the puppets, whether smallish or enormous, were wonderfully well-crafted.

But the puppetry itself was amateurish and unfocused, the dancing likewise, and the whole thing thoroughly incoherent. Act 2, an improvised and largely undecipherable puppet conversation titled “Tea With Duality,” was possibly the single most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever seen on a stage.

Finally, if I were called upon to offer one technical suggestion, it would be this: If you know that, during the course of your trippy hourlong multimedia paean to peace, you will be donning a giant papier-mache puppet-head and dancing about the darkened performance space, you might think twice about building a spider-web of purple yarn throughout said space before the puppet-head dance.

That way, there will be less stumbling.

Remaining performances:
Friday, July 18 @ 6:00pm; Saturday, July 19 @ 2:00 PM; Sunday, July 27 @ 7:00 PM

They say: “A visual presentation of an ancient folktale. The evolution of a people long forgotten. The birth and death of magic from the world in our eyes. Movement, dance, art, music, everything in between and unlike anything you’ve ever seen. The Fiddler Ghost lives on. Movement. Art. Dance. Music. Fate. Myth. And a live Fiddler.”

Tabitha’s take: There are some things to like. The live fiddler is good. The performers are well-rehearsed and committed. The show has rustic charm, as if it’s taking place in an open-minded pub, and a draught of Guinness is only a wink away.

However, when you find yourself thinking, “Gee, they could’ve used help from Michael Flatley,” you know something’s not right. Putting hands behind the back and hopping does not an Irish jig make. The choreography veers wildly, from an entertaining puppet sequence in which a man is controlled by fairies, to a dance stolen from the Lost Boys in Disney’s Peter Pan.

Even with the plot described in the program, it can be hard to follow. The myth is unfamiliar, and although the cast can dance, their lack of mime expertise renders some of the action unintelligible. They seem to always know what they’re doing, but often, I didn’t. The most glaring deficiency: with the live fiddler providing the music, an actor pretends to play, glancing around in a way that would’ve sent the instrument tucked under his chin crashing. It could have been a lovely moment – this ghost fiddler playing an invisible fiddle – but instead it was almost silly.

Still, the production isn’t a lost cause. The cast has talent, and in this, their first production as Old Lore Theater, they demonstrate that they may not be quite out of the fairy’s woods yet, but there’s hope.

See it if: You want to support a fledgling company with unique ideas, and you always suspected that fairies sounded like gremlins.

Skip it if: You revere Jacques Lecoq (or Michael Flatley).

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.