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:
Saturday, July 25 @ 6:30 p.m.

They say: “Destinies of a European countess and a humble American chambermaid collide at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition. Swords of steel penetrate gender norms, true identities are freely explored, and one man discovers it is better to receive than to give.”

Hilary’s take: I’m not sure if the Shark Tank Players’ production is the worst play I’ve ever seen or the greatest gender-bending burlesque send-up I’ve ever seen. It’s likely both, and it’s undeniably good, dirty fun.

At the Chicago World’s Fair, BFF’s and fearless shemales Penelope (Lacey Carriage) and Felicity (Goober Cemetery) cross paths (and cross-dress) with Countess Cornelia (the sublime Monti Gilmore), a Dionysian figure the size of Saturn much beloved by her loyal lesbian sex vixens whose breasts she names for the planet’s moons. The Countess knows her way around a sword, and Felicity seeks her fencing expertise to seduce Douglas (Peanut Norway), Penelope’s brother.

But the way to her man’s heart is not so simple. Douglas, whose clingy trousers leave little (okay, all 8 inches) to the imagination, conflates fencing and frottage, humping rather than fighting his opponents. Penelope is more than happy with Douglas’ same-sex distractions, for she harbors a secret love for Felicity (and women, generally). But when the mysterious, intriguing George Sand (Missy Peyton) enters the scene, Douglas and Penelope are smitten; only one gets the girl in the end (literally). It is indeed a story about love, sex, and dominance as the program suggests, replete with sword play both above and below the belt.

Uncorseted is a winding, wildly hilarious ride from lights up to lights down, and all the characters and conflicts are flung to the fore from the get go—after all, the show’s only got 30 minutes to climax. But I would not have protested to spending all night with “nipple consultant” Jetta Bra-man’s handiwork (I’ll never again look at my flesh-colored bras in the same way) and Carriage and Cemetery’s perfect, stiff-as-a-strap-on delivery. The plastic-y fright wigs, the  half-assed transvestism (all men sported at least six o’ clock shadows), the barren staging. It’s an amalgam of great, bad-on-purpose decisions that—much to the cast and crew’s credit—yields Fringe gold.

See it if: You came to Fringe to see something Fringetastic, or at the very least, some boobs. Also, see it if you enjoy swag, i.e. booby cupcakes and “First Family” keychains.

Skip it if: Dangling dildos and lesbian sex vixens don’t tickle your funny bone.

Goodbye Love, Goodbye Joy, Hello Travis McElroy

Remaining performances:
July 23 at 9:45 pm; July 25 at 11:30 am

They say: You make your living pretending to be someone you’re not. Goodbye, love. Everybody else’s entertainment is your job. Goodbye, joy. So is it possible to work in Hollywood without your life turning into a sitcom? Hello, Travis McElroy.

Sheffy says: Jellybeans?! When staging a play gushing with stereotypes, the blubbering young woman who just lost her boyfriend medicates with chocolate ice cream. Even I know that. And there is plenty of blubbering (and jellybeans) in a play about three female roommates in Hollywood fighting over clothes, movie gigs, and men (meow!). There’s Kelly (Kristen Egermeier), the beautiful self-centered actress who’ll do anything, or anyone, to get her big break; Jessica (Teresa Spencer) the out-of-work actress who doesn’t seem to understand how to play the game in Hollywood; and then there’s the sweet Linda (Megan Dominy) with the big heart, yet sans boyfriend.

Thanks to one of the wonderful miracles of alcohol, Kelly awakes one morning to find in her bed the pathetic Travis McElroy (David Dowell). She promptly dumps him on her roommates as she slips out to pursue her career (er, allowing herself to get used by a sleazy, egotistic movie producer who promises her a part). As Travis cluelessly waddles after Kelly, Linda is attracted to his naďveté. Will Travis-the-romantic go for the pretty face, or the big heart? Well, what would happen in Hollywood? I could find no moral in this story, but Hollywood isn’t known for its morals.

The movie producer sums up Hollywood: if you get a big name actor, add some big tits, the script doesn’t matter. Apparently, 10th Muse Productions doesn’t put much stock in scripts either. For example, in what world do these ladies even end up with such a loser as Travis (with internet video gaming providing a venue for dorks to totally avoid social interaction, do people even still play Dungeons & Dragons)? OK, they were aiming for sitcom (without a laugh track), and they do elicit a few legitimate chuckles. But the one-dimensional writing is just tolerably redeemed by some engaging comedic acting. I credit director Patrick Torres for putting together a humorous show that could easily have defaulted to “college theater.”

See it if: You felt that Carrie should have married Aidan in season 4 of “Sex and the City” or you even have an idea what I’m talking about.

Skip it if: You think “Sex and the City” is a porn movie.

Remaining Performances:
Thursday, July 23 @ 8 p.m.

They say: “Four adventurers step through a wardrobe door and into Narnia, a frozen land enslaved by the White Witch. When almost all hope is lost, the return of the Great Lion, Aslan, signals a great change and sacrifice.”

Hilary’s take: I haven’t the patience for children’s productions.

Looking at the Fringe guide, I wondered how C.S. Lewis’ best known work could be condensed into 42 minutes. Well, the production was actually 30 minutes. And it felt long. But I’m about 15 years older than the target audience and I left my stunt children at home. With no ability to gauge the play’s success on my own, I inferred from the sporadic giggles behind me that the Adventure Theater production had achieved its goal: to entertain the kiddies.

All that said, the performance was technically perfect. Peter and Lucy, firmly in the present, recount the siblings’ past discovery of Narnia, subsequent revolutionary crowning, and 30-year reign. Staging is minimal—just a small wardrobe on wheels and three wintry tapestries speckled with firs, glitter, and Christmas lights—and so is the cast. Kristen Egermeier and Danny Pushkin field the ten or so characters—Susan, the White Witch, and various stone statues and Edmond, Mr. Tumnus, and Aslan, respectively. Egermeier and Pushkin hop around the stage and ramble like authentic children with admirable abandon, taking the antics offstage to whip up some more giggles from the pint-sized patrons. I guess Pushkin sensed the parents and I needed a jolt of enthusiasm, and high-fiving Aslan’s giant plush paw—that which had just slain the wicked witch—was the highlight of my experience.

See it if: You have kids and/or have already seen The Pirates of Penzance.

Skip it if: You don’t have kids.

Remaining Performances:
Saturday, July 25 @ 11 p.m.
Sunday, July 26 @ 2:15 p.m.

They say: “It’s back! The war on terror takes a hilarious turn as Irish authors from the ages are kidnapped by terrorists of every stripe. Expect no victims in this wicked romp that lampoons beloved writers and hated terrorists, or vice versa.”

Hilary’s take: Perhaps—given this show’s 2003 premiere at the Washington Theater Festival and its 2006 stint at the Warehouse Second Stage—it wouldn’t be fair to the newer, unvetted Fringe acts to hail J.T. Burian Theatricals’ IAHH as the most brilliant (in the ‘cross the pond exclamatory sense) production of 2009′s fest. But in an era held hostage by relics of Dubya’s terror-mongering, “fair” is so last century. Besides, Oscar Wilde (John Morogiello) had me at “I don’t care what you do to me so long as it’s BEAUUUUTIFUL!”

Playwright/actor Morogiello is a comic genius and IAHH the product of his literary sensibilities (okay, nerdiness) and disgusting talent. In less than 90 minutes, Morogiello crystallizes nine of Ireland’s most famous scribblers in caricatures based on astute textual interpretation. Ridiculous though Samuel Beckett or Frank McCourt (both skewered to perfection by Terence Aselford) may be onstage, Morogiello’s subjects are only as absurd as their scripture allows. I really wouldn’t put it past McCourt, author of interminably depressing memoir Angela’s Ashes, to get into a pissing contest with a Somali pirate over whose tortured childhood was indeed more torturous. Sorry Frank, but I think subsisting off half-eaten sandwiches left by documentary film crews beats gobbling garbage and sipping cabbage tea.

Don’t know diddly about James Joyce or Brendan Behan? Unfamiliarity with pub scrawlers is not a huge problem; in the best program I’ve ever read, J. Thaddeus Burian provides a brief, Swiftian rundown of the play’s authors for “the less intelligent members of our audience.” Such patrons may also find enjoyable “International Terrorism: The Game!” located just after the educational bits in the pamphlet. (Hint: The answer is “Power.”)

Sure, the hostage sketch done nine times over may sound like a bore, but Morogiello mixes it up with sub-plots and a recurring tormentor (played gamely by Terence Heffernan). Ninety minutes came and went, and only then did I realize I could hear the music from The Apothecary downstairs in the sweltering Bodega. Nothing else I’ve sampled at Fringe can touch IAHH‘s the trifecta of lacerating wit, flawless delivery, and superb performances from the entire cast (Morogiello’s recurring Yeats was a highlight, as was Lori Boyd’s turn as Lady Gregory). You haven’t Fringed until you’ve seen Wilde clutch his chest at the sight of a “dark, rugged” jihadist bent over in prayer.

See it if: You have $15 and you’d love to know what really kept everyone waiting for Godot.

Skip it if: Belly laughing makes you nauseous.

So please explain to me why the Fringe beer police start grabbing cups out of your hands at 12:40 a.m.!  Last Saturday night, my friend got up from our table to make room in her bladder to finish her beer, and when she got back at 12:45, her beer had been confiscated—against our protestations.   This Saturday night, after being harassed every 5 minutes by said beer police, the editor of this City Paper blog had his nearly full bottle swiped from under his nose at 12:48.  We were informed that Alcohol Beverage Control has been cracking down (they don’t like ‘em theatre-types, I reckon).

Look, I’m not trying to get Fringe in trouble with the law, but I think I can finish my beer in 10 minutes.  I mean, I made it through college.  If Fringe is really concerned about the law, then change closing time at 12:45.  Otherwise, let a guy drink his beer in peace.

Freakshow

Remaining Performances:
July 17th at 8:45 pm
July 23 at 6:30 pm

What they say: “Freakshow at a crossroads — the Dog Faced Woman sniffs freedom — the Ringmaster seeks redemption — and what lies in the mind of the Woman With No Arms and No Legs anyway? Step right up…if you dare.”

Caroline’s take: The description makes this show sound like some sort of spectacle that will disturb the audience;  really, it’s nothing like that.  Burrowing into the minds of the various players involved, the show illuminates what keeps them exploiting themselves (and each other) day after day.  It’s a simple enough premise—what goes on in the minds of 1900s “circus freaks,” people who are born with or develop various strange qualities that turns them into spectacles?  But to hear their own perceptions changes your assumptions immediately.

It all begins with Amalia, “The Woman With No Arms and No Legs,” who introduces the cast and crew of “Mr. Flip’s Freakshow and Traveling Jungle.”  There’s Aquaboy, the human salamander, who started off as a kid with extra skin between his fingers and toes and eventually grew gills after spending so much time in the water.  There’s also Pinhead, who appears to be mentally retarded and lives on his hands and knees in a cage.  Their attendants are Mr. Flip, the owner and ringleader, Judith, his assistant and a former star of the show, and Matthew, the young animal lover who just wants to help these people as they travel around the country.  At one stop, a young girl falls in love with Aquaboy and joins the motley crew.

Amalia serves as narrator, spotlighting the trials and tribulations of each character and pinpointing what brought them together.  Amid the love triangles, battles for attention, and attempts to escape their oppressive environment, the show keeps returing to the fact that none of the stars ever fit in among their peers.  It might be because, like Pinhead and Amalia, they will always be different, or it could be that they are so profoundly unhappy with their family lives that they literally run away to join the circus.  All the actors are so conscious of their characters’ neuroses and characteristics that the small conflicts seem real, regardless of how different the people may look.  The differences between the humans and “freaks” are often too difficult to reconcile, which pulls them apart in the end: They long for a sense of community that is never fully achieved.

Even the set captures the freakish quality of the show.  The legless woman sits on a stool behind a podium, disguising her actual limbs, the Pinhead has his own straw-lined cage to play in, and Aquaboy has a makeshift tank that he can splash around in. And it all happens under a tent, which is so fitting for a show about a circus—a more appropriate venue couldn’t be found.

See it if: You’re looking for a comic and poignant reflection on what’s weird about all of us.

Skip it if: You are scared of circuses.

Sex, Dreams, and Self Control

Remaining Performances: Thursday, July 16 at 6:30 pm.  Friday, July 17 at 10:00 pm.  Saturday, July 18 at 7:00 pm.  Sunday, July 19 at 3:30 pm.

They Say: This rites of passage tale presents itself bold and racy, and speaks loudly about sexuality and religion.  With an original alternative folk rock score in which Kevin Thornton croons like a young John Hiatt or a post-Smiths Morrissey.  One guitar.  One man.  A wild ride.

Ann’s Take: I hope years from now we’ll say, “they just don’t write songs like Kevin Thornton used to.” Accompanied by gorgeous guitar riffs and a sweet, melodic voice, no written description can do his songs justice.  You need to hear the refrain “After bible study hand jobs…We’ll read the word of God and then throb…” set to music to understand fully how poignant his lyrics can be.  And lucky for you, you can, tonight and every night this weekend.

But this one-man show is no mere set of folk-rock ditties; Thornton’s got some some rather revealing inter-song chat.  Chronicling his memories of his childhood underwear sanctuary, romantic involvement with a mannequin, procurement of a gay-to-straight self-help book, and a myriad of boy crush stories, he leaves no detail (or STD) unexposed or absurdity unexploited.  But his vivid confessions never dwell on the negative.  Even the most harrowing descriptions are turned on their head with a tender smile and a reminiscent glow.  And this small but important choice moves the “how I learned I was gay” solo performance genre into new, refreshing territory.

While the show is mostly about sex and partly about Christianity, it is also about references to the 80’s.  How long has it been since you thought about Designing Women? Too long, I imagine.  And, remember those Columbia House free mail-order cassette deals? Even the pre-show soundtrack featuring Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody has the audience bopping along with happy anticipation that they are about to be flung back 20 years.  (I saw you chair-dancing in front of me, Gray-Polo-Shirt Guy.)  Thornton’s careful placement of these details adds a richness to the piece that pure, graphic commentary cannot accomplish on its own.

So, to recap.  You’ve got: youth pastor finger-wagging;  a thousand-headed Richard Simmons monster; and a song about hand jobs.  I suggest you take $15 out of the ATM and get down to the Goethe Institut immediately.

See it if: You’ve ever come of age.

Skip it if: You’re looking for something to watch with your 12-year-old niece who is visiting from the Bible Belt.

Thou Shall Not Kill

Remaining performances:
July 17 at 9:45 pm; July 19 at 2:15 pm

They say: “A collection of stimulating and comedic one-acts asking the question, ‘Can’t murder be innocent?’ Join a variety of imaginative characters portraying how naively one’s mind can contemplate murder. This show will challenge your own morals and leave you wanting more!”

Sheffy says: Remember how much fun you had in your Philosophy 101 class debating questions like: Is it ethical to kill someone in self-defense or in war? What about assassinating Hitler? If you could prevent someone from being killed, are you culpable if you don’t? Now imagine listening to that debate rehashed for 120 straight minutes. I get it, every scenario is unique, but to make your point, do you really need to beat it over the head with a brick (uh, literally)?

The cast does an admirable job keeping the audience’s attention, particularly the charismatic female actresses, who unfortunately only appear in two of the acts. However, instead of some serious editing, the show opted to save time by skipping an intermission and having the actors talk fast (though otherwise their Southern drawls were convincing).

If the playwrights seriously wanted to engage the audience in a moral debate, the scenarios would have to be grounded in sociological motives for real murder—say, passion, money, revenge, or maybe some juicy sexual infidelity. But by staying in philosophy class, they never transcend a cartoonish view on why someone might be driven to murder. Although they retread ideas from Crime and Punishment (killing just because you can get away with it), the writing just ain’t Dostoevsky.

See it if: You’ve ever watched a murder unfold on CSI and thought to yourself, “I could have done it better!”

Skip it if: You can’t conceive of a two-hour dialectic on murder that doesn’t even mention Kant. Or, you’ve never actually contemplated killing someone: by Act 3 or 4, you just might start looking around for someone responsible to kill.

Here are the Fringe & Purge reviews from last year. Note:  Dates, times, and locations in the last year’s reviews have changed (duh!) so please see times posted below.

Bargain Basement Game Show–Warehouse Next Door, 7/16 @10pm, 7/18 @1pm, 7/24 @6pm

Children of Medea–Bedroom at Ft. Fringe, 7/16 @8:30pm, 7/17 @8:30pm, 7/19 @4:30pm, 7/25 @2:30pm

Diamond Dead (OK, I’m not sure if this is, ahem, a reincarnation, or the sequel)–Baldacchino Gypsy Tent, 7/18 @6:30pm, 7/19 @5:30pm, 7/22 @6, 7/25 @7:30

McSwiggin’s Pub–Goethe Institut,  7/18 @12:45, 7/24 @8pm, 7/25 @10:30pm

Dizzy Miss Lizzie’s Roadside Revue: The Oresteia–Church St. Theater, 7/17 @11pm, 7/18 @11pm, 7/19 @7&9pm,  7/24 @11pm, 7/25 @11pm, 7/26 @7&9pm

Revolutionary: Isadora Duncan’s Words, Music, Dance–Mt. Vernon United Methodist Church,  7/15 @7:30, 7/25 @11:30am

Sorry if I missed any, but I’m sure you’ll let me know…