THEATER REVIEW- Prodigal Daughter

Prodigal Daughter is the story of a Korean woman, who was sent to live in the United States as a child, returning to her native land and family upon the death of her father. The play follows her attempts to navigate a way through the social posturing of what is “appropriate” emotion, connect with the mother and sister she left behind, and discover the secrets behind her estrangement.

The story is set in the reconciliation of the Korean War and the American army occupation, which is portrayed by a decorated Yankee general who is hiding a perverted secret of his own. The themes that Prodigal Daughter strives to explore (cultural identities, sacrifice, desperation, regret) are all very ambitious, both the actors and writer should be commended for having made the effort. The Women of Asia Theatre Company Australia is proud of its race-blind casting policies and models its commitment to breaking through stereotypes in all aspects of its work.

The result, though worth watching, is somewhat fragmented. The main character --and the linchpin of the show, seems to have unclear investment in either her life in America or Korea. Her anger and resentment at having been given up is never fully addressed and too many scenes are wasted to illustrate her fish-out-of-Korean-waters status.

Additionally, her relationship with her mother and sister is confusing because moral-jabs replace catch-up and mutual discovery, which should only be expected after a 30+ year absence. In the end, I craved a more satisfying confrontation between strong wills and desires—unfortunately, I had no idea what those were; everything was intentional but somehow lacked intent.

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Word Play

I am cursed to not only with the traditional pain of thinking of comebacks too late, but also witty things that “I could have said to be funny” will hit me, only after the relevant situation has disappeared from view. This sad burden is one that keeps me from achieving my full potential as a funny, delightful, beloved, party-favorite individual that I know is somewhere inside.

But then I remember, at all hours of the day and night, that I am now the proud owner of a blog! It is a way to turn back time and relive the glory days that could have been, but never were:

Scene: Man in full-body bread costume sitting down exhausted, sipping a coke.

I should have said: “Oh hey, you look absolutely toasted!”

He would have: laughed.
I would have: smiled.
We would have: been blissfully sandwiched together.





Scene: Eight year-old with blue eye shadow, ruby red lips, powdering her nose.

I should have said: "When I was your age, I was making believe, not up."

She would have: been confused.
I would have: looked patronizingly critical.
We would have: been separated by the equally be-decked mother bear.

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THEATER REVIEW- Tales Out of School - A Retired Teacher Lets it all Out

I am sure that Gareth Calway was a wonderful teacher for all of his 27 years, perhaps he even wrote a very touching book of poetry and stories (a medium he calls "verse poetry") inspired by that experience, but then I would much rather see this one-man-act toned down and eased into either a relaxed story-telling or book-reading-affair. There is obviously a rich breadth of character and scenarios that could have been drawn upon, but instead the audience is treated only to a sea of similes in which the half-limericks flounder.

The staged readings are broken up by ridiculous performances of the bewigged teacher enthusiastically playing air-guitar to classic rock school-related themes. The message of the show is spelled out only in the last 6 or so lines of the performance, and it is a blunt instrument of elucidation on what a more “pure” teaching moment really is.

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THEATER REVIEW- The Ordinaries ... in an awkward silence

When the white-faced-black-eyed Ordinaries, mother, father, daughter, sons, emerged squirming from inside of their centerpiece couch, I was sure that Beetlejuice was coming next. I squirmed in my seat dreading the nonsensical clowning, farcical humor and forced laughs. Instead, I was touched by the dark story of a family desperate to hide their skeletons in the cupboard, along with their daughter, Sarah, growing up too soon—played silent by a puppet and her puppeteer.

The real becomes the absurd in an effective way of illuminating the absurd within the real: striving to be normal literally becomes a contest with the neighbors; “putting your best face forward” is an actual family exercise in smiling; and the psychological profile of each caricature is delivered in beautiful, lyrical prose.

It is a creative way of storytelling, through the eyes of her brother, as witness, and the audience as jury in this tragic playhouse of parts

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Song of Myself

Again, personal details have been demanded. I’m supposed to put the “human touch” (intuitively, I suppose that would be mine?) on the Fringe, and thus far, I have been failing. It seems that proper Blogging, unlike other forms of masturbatory pleasures, is not as easy as they look.

For Scot’s Sake

I have met several true-blue Scots (who I have been incorrectly referring to as “Scotlanders”). To me, they sound incomprehensibly like pirates, and every time I try to mimic their accent, I end up brandishing my arm and squinting at an invisible parrot. It’s a very odd look and I hope that people dismiss it as individual adult-retardation instead of blanketing their assumptions across all Americans. If you apply to Scottish university and are outright dismissed, you may either blame me or the 2004 election.

Last night, I popped into a local pub to find people fiddling, impromptu whistling (on what looked like a glorified recorder) and clapping along while guzzling such amounts of booze that would put even the sweetest fraternity brother to shame and under-the-table. I am convinced that Scots, like Russians, are nursed on 80-proof formula or have a complex series of livers which target any ill-effects of liquor into a speech-impediment that has, like the goiter elsewhere, become a symbol of nationalistic pride.

I say all this, of course, in vain attempts to feign indifference to Scotsmen who are a thousand times more appealing than American males; if only for the slight language barrier, which gives me the freedom to imagine all sorts of compliments in-between the gulps and pauses in conversation. I smile, giggle, mentally pick out wallpaper--- no doubt increasing the appearance of lunacy.

I live in such self-absorbed romanticism, that I often mistake daftness for depth having read one-too many descriptions of the quiet-but-silent types who are made of the rock, connected to the earth, and whose lion hearts cannot find expression in the tongues of men (think Tristan in “Legends of the Fall”, and yeah, I know he is Brad Pitt as an American Cowboy, but the point remains---I also didn’t want to admit that Braveheart was the only other reference I could make).

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THEATER REVIEW- Angel and the Woodcutter

This is one of the best shows, dance or otherwise, that I have ever seen. I was on my feet pounding furiously into my hands and was surprised that among the whole-heartedly enthusiastic audience, there was only a handful that followed suit (I blame British reserve). The show was heartbreaking, beautiful, uplifting, and the energy with which every minute was packed, was breathtaking (and exhausting). The Korean Cho-in Theatre Company speaks volumes without ever uttering a word.

The story follows a family through both peace and war, and excels at choreographing moments of tenderness between the different relationships as they evolve. A lighthearted beginning breaks into a more serious narration. The expressions on the performer’s faces were pantomime and operatic and the language of movement and dance was universal. I think that this is a must-see for all-festival attendees. Even if this is not your typical bag, it's on my list of things that people should be forced to love (can you believe that I'm not a fundementalist?)

I have a friend majoring in dance performance, and I am always called-out for not quite appreciating the craft---no more. Yesterday I was awash with it.

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THEATER REVIEW- The Atheist

The Atheist was another fantastic, smartly written, one-man show. I was nothing short of spellbound the entire time without interrupting myself to yawn, mix’n’match (where imagine the genetic byproducts of the most unlikely couples), or discreetly check the time. This is an especially commendable achievement given the sparse set and did I mention, one man? It was a powerfully delivered performance, clean, moving, and though the character was something of a villain, he was a lovable one (or perhaps I’m just that twisted? I mean, I secretly crushed on Judas in Corpus Christi). Augustine takes us through his humble upbringing, delusions of grandeur, motivation, triumph, and the very familiar game of placing if-then wagers with fate on moral decisions. I want theater to dramatize reality by amplifying it, and afterwards I found myself wishing that there was more to regret, a more despicable shame in Augustine’s life…I wanted to squirm in my seat, to be pushed, challenged, and more than just simply entertained.

Surprisingly under-attended, a sparse audience for what should have been a much more popular show.

Admittedly, I went for the title alone (“There are others? This I must see!”), but I was actually relieved that the discussion of the spiritual was reserved and subtle. Flawed also in its abrupt cop-out ending, which did not fit in with who the created role and broke my willing-suspension before I was ready to let go.

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On James Campbell and Being Cool

The greatest thing about the Fringe Festival, is that you’re right in the very thick of all of the artists you have just seen onstage in the bathroom, on the streets, pubs, clubs, and all the rest of the biggest little city in the world (sorry Reno). I had a chance to briefly meet James Campbell, the author of Coffee yesterday and have to confess to being at least superficially impressed by his particular brand of cool.

In my mind all cheerleaders should be blonde, all politicians crooked, and all playwrights should darkly pace outside the theater while talking into their cell phones, drinking white wine, and smoking. For beginners, legitimacy might also be increased if one periodically rubs their temple, as if in pain from either a migraine or a deep, tortured, soul. If James had been on an advertisement selling Camel Cigarettes, I would already have black lung disease.

I also believe that anything said with a British accent is entirely more intellectual. My sole ambition (will be contradicted in the near-to-immediate future) is to learn how to passably fake it. Some form of Anglo-idolization has been present throughout American history. Though textbooks do not speak on the subject, there must have been people on the shores of Boston in 1773 who resented the waste of all that jolly good tea.

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THEATER REVIEW- Raz-mataz

After Raz-mataz, I feel like I have seen it all. It was a show I had heard people walked out of, “provocative” I reasoned. It was a show people regretted having seen, “narrow-minded” I defended. Can you imagine pure, pointlessness? A chaos of costume changes, jumping, screaming, drumming, a mess of streamers, and just to kick the audience when they’re already down? Mad prancing of a pantomime horse. In the end, I just left feeling awed that someone had managed to pull this together, hire stage-hands, schedule a venue, advertise at the fringe festival and even bring in a nightly audience.

If I was to fling shit around, I would just be routinely locked away or removed from among the judgment of the more civilized folk. What these young actors do is publicly mock our willingness to waste time, see art, and just watch people---doing something---doing anything. Two of the people in line with me were seeing it for the second time. How desperate we are to be shocked, to be disgusted, to feel. I am curious beyond words as to what the actors/writers/directors were thinking…and beyond that left strangely aroused. So all in all, a masochist’s dream.

There are no stars to give. This was beyond stars.

For those of you who did sadly did not grow up with either Star Trek or formal education, this is a black hole….because that’s where one hour of my life went, and I have no idea where that is.

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