Behold The Shop, the newest of three stages located inside the Fort Fringe complex. Though fatigued after two sleepless days of prep, producing artistic director Scot McKenzie agreed to talk to us about the theater-in-the-round once used as a storeroom for salsicce.

Shot and edited by Matt Bevilacqua.

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.

The Escapades of Farty Johnson

Remaining performances:
July 23 at 6 p.m.
July 25 at 2:30 p.m.

They say: A physical comedy gestation!!! Join Harold P. Johnson, esq. (aka Farty J.) on a messy, manic, dreamy, hilarious dancin’ romp that may land you SPLATT! inside the soft spot in your heart. Door Prize: Can O’Beans.

Ted’s take: Patricia Krauss has found the perfect venue for her one-woman “physical comedy gestation,” in which the irrepressible Tooty Johnson—a metaphysically unmoored character played with the halting muggery of a Dana Carvey—sweats her way through an audition that never happens. Let’s do the math: It’s a 1.) self-referential piece of character acting that 2.) engages the question of how a terminally weird, delusional thespian goes about the agony of self-promotion without 3.) much of a gameplan but with 4.) a mystical reverence for the transmogrifying possibilities of the proscenium. Really, then, this is a show about the fringe (and the people who live there)—if not about Fringe itself.

It also, sad to tell, sports many of the classic Fringe pitfalls: spotty timing; an intermittent lack of discipline; and promising physical comedy that, in the absence of a better organizing principle, serves as its own message. Still, surprisingly touching moments shine through, including a soliloquy from Magnolia, a canine puppet who calls herself Tooty Johnson’s “fairy bitch mother” and observes that while everyone needs divine intervention, some—the Tooties of the world—need it more than others. Elsewhere, the noted direttore Federico Fartellini (complete with hook-nosed Commedia dell’arte mask) appears, and after confusing Tooty (the lady) with Così fan tutte (the opera), decides that perhaps he should give her a shot.

Two weeks ago, in a short capsule on this show’s sneak-preview, I praised Tooty’s dance, “an offbeat quadrille that somehow communicates deep sadness while keeping the audience in stitches. Can it sustain over the full 45 minutes?” The answer’s no; but I also think it could be something of a triumph, if Krauss pared down the monotonous quirk and fleshed out Tooty’s character. As is, we’re looking at a gestation indeed—from a gifted performer who’s perhaps a bit more gifted in the filigree department than in the concept department.

See it if: You’ve ever wanted to see a Beckett short performed by Garth from Wayne’s World.

Skip it if: You agree with Tooty that “waiting can be boring“—even when you’re waiting in the company of an affable contortionist.