I need to open this review with a brief confession: I'd like to live closer to New York. Love to live closer to New York, actually. I tell myself that just about anybody with a passion for the stage wants to be in New York, that most of us outside of New York are justifiably melodramatic (perhaps you've heard us?) in complaining about the mythical misunderstanding, oppression, and death of theatre everywhere outside of New York. Ha. After what happened at the Warehouse Theatre last night, I need to do penance for such unholy thoughts. Jayce T. Tromsness directed such a Macbeth as would make any theatre nut proud to stand up and be counted a Greenvillian.
There are no kilts (or robes). No grown men holding twigs in front of their faces. Not much of anything that you've come to associate with Macbeth, except the language. Tromsness sets the Scottish play in the Balkans, in the war-torn Bosnia of the 90s. Shannon Roberts comes through with an emotionally charged set--you'll be tempted to weep before the action even begins, but wait. The first ten minutes of the play are some of the most muscular and harrowing moments I've ever seen on the boards. They were in fact the most harrowing moments I'd ever seen--until we came to Macduff's pretty chickens and their dam. Yes, I cried.
With a production as stunning as this, it's hard to find highlights, so I offer instead a list of the things that are still lingering with me the morning after:
The weird sisters--Lynne Junker, Tiffany Nave, Kerrie Seymore. They don't have beards. Or matted hair. Or long bony fingers. But give them turbans and swaths of dirty lace and talismans and they'll haunt you tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
Blood. Entrails. Blood-shot eyes. Blood. I won't tell you how they do it, but the result is chilling.
Hecate. Anne Kelly Tromsness is the ultimate argument for the existence of Hecate. And her doubling as the ever-present Doctor gave a chill-bumping reminder of the strange forces at work in this world.
Ghosts! Banquo (astonishing show from Andy Croston) and his unending line of wraith-like kings.
Humans. Real humans. The Lords and Ladies Macbeth I have known in the past have already seemed to be kings before the play begins. Regal, imposing, infinitely above me and my little concerns with the world. What Paul Savas and Debra Capps bring to these roles is an unsettling familiarity. I was shocked by the every-day-ness of their language, their actions. They are more relevant than regal, which gives them an especial terror: that could be me. That could be any one of us. Don't get me wrong. When the time comes for the big explosive speeches, Savas and Capps are dynamite. But the part of their performance that is still with me today? Act Three, Scene Two--a brilliant and beautiful fight between the husband and wife.
Macduff, Macduff, Macduff! Such a stirring performance by Brock Koonce--anyone can muster a few tears for dead kids, but his show after Duncan's murder? Took my breath away--and that in a scene that has always made me cringe for false notes. I would I could usurp Shakespeare and make Macduff the next king.
How to tie up all these disparate memories? With the man who made them possible to begin with, and I don't mean Shakespeare. I've seen enough wimpy concept-driven renditions (Macbeth as a mostly-danced fable set in western Africa?) to know that the Bard alone doesn't bring this kind of muscle to a production. The director, Jayce Tromsness, has created some of the most human and horrifying Shakespeare I've experienced to date: his Macbeth is a figure from the nightly news, from Iraq or Afghanistan or any other war we've sat and watched from our armchairs. More than this: its the only Macbeth that has wrested my focus away from Otherness and War and turned a level gaze to my own sneaking ambitions. And isn't that supposed to be the point? Encore, Mr. Tromsness. Encore.
Appalachia 1912. Expect music from the hills, family, old-timey ways. But don't expect the good ole days. The miners are being forced into more and more degrading, life-threatening conditions, and those who disagree are run off the company property. Enter a strike. Enter armed guards, and a family torn--members living and dead, straddling both sides of the not-so-proverbial fence. This is Walter Thinnes' "Coal Creek," Winner of the 2009 New Play Festival, and produced by Centre Stage.
Caleb (Jeff Warren) and his son Joshua (Justin Walker) face off as father and son on opposite sides of the labor war. Aunt Lillian (Alyx Clements) and Anna (Olivia Wilusz) try to outfox the camp guard Quinn (Bruce Meahl) to get food to Joshua and the other starving strikers. It's a uniformly strong cast, with a sparkling performance by Alyx Clements--her feisty Lillian is the highlight of the evening, so honest and homey you'd think she just happened to wander in here from camp. And when she matches wits and wills with Quinn? Expect fireworks and lots of laughter, and a delicious of feeling of relief that you aren't on the receiving end of all her "attentions."
You'll also be glad you didn't live in the sepia-toned past, at least not when real history rears its grisly head. Thinnes has taken up the story of the West Virginia Mine War, and he doesn't shy away from the facts. But he also finds an impossible path--the one narrow road leading to a feeling of hope and triumph.
This is a new play. Approach it not like a baby, but like a teenager. It's growing. Sometimes it doesn't know what to do with its lanky appendages. It's often long-winded, and sometimes traffics in cliche, but thanks to Brian Haimbach's insightful direction--the play just might surprise you with its passion and humor, its clarity on disturbing passages in history. And you'll be one of the few, the hearty few, who can point to the successful grown-up play and say, "Yes, I knew Coal Creek, way back in the good ole days."
--
Walter Thinnes' "Coal Creek," Director: Brian Haimbach. Scene: Wendy Marriott. Sound: Richard Beveridge. Lighting: Marlaina Seay. Costume: Deb Warren. With Jeff Warren, Bruce Meahl, Alyx Clements, Justin Walker, Olivia Wilusz.
Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through Jan 30. Tickets $10 ($5 students)
I was a junior philatelist for ten years; I breathed stamps. And even I was skeptical about "Mauritius'" premise. Nostalgia maybe. Charm definitely. But adrenaline? Fear? Over little pieces of paper? Probably not. I was mistaken. Centre Stage's production of Theresa Rebeck's "Mauritius" (rhymes with malicious) is a perfect suspense for this spooky season.
Jackie (Debra Capps) slogs through the aftermath of her mother's death: the house, the stuff, demons (and bruises) of a past life, mountains of bills she can't even read. There's one glint of hope: some old stamps bequeathed to her on mom's deathbed. A pair of Mauritius stamps, each worth enough money to solve everything. Unfortunately, the stamps also come with an estranged half-sister, a has-been philatelist, and two violent con men (Brock Koonce and Neil Shurley). Cue action.
From David Hartmann's tight set to J. Michael Craig's musty old Phil, the show genuinely surprises. But if the stamps are the “crown jewels of philately,” the crown jewels of this production are the sisters, Jackie and Mary. Debra Capp's Jackie is funny, painful, and poignant. She's been through the apocalypse of a family, and while she's deeply damaged, she's still fighting. I wouldn't mind seeing a sequel—what happens to Jackie after—provided Ms. Capp is in the role.
And Mary. Mary, Mary, Mary. She's also a survivor, though of a different strain. Anne Kelly Tromsness's Mary is so real, it's almost hard to hate her. Almost. But hate her or no, Tromsness gives her so much depth that you can't help hoping she'll come to her senses.
You'll pull for Jackie's right to those stamps all the way through the harrowing show, but Theresa Rebeck's script delivers something you didn't even think to want: the realization that no amount of money can fix the past. Or even the present. But with a little luck and some very quick thinking, you just might be able to imagine a better future.
--
Theresa Rebeck's "Mauritius" Directed by Chip Egan. With Debra Capps, J. Michael Craig, Brock Koonce, Neil Shurley, Anne Kelly Tromsness.
Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through Oct 31. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.
There's a big old moon tonight—yellow and dripping down color on the moss. There are some shooting stars and a few stray bolts of lightning. Old timers would tell you it's the perfect night for catfish. The horoscope hotline would tell you it's the perfect night for romance. And then there's Frog, who would tell you it's the perfect night to beat your (former) best buddy to a pulp. Director Francis Kuhn gives you a little of all three in Warehouse Theatre's production of “Catfish Moon.”
It was Curley's idea, so you can blame him. He organized this reunion of sorts, calling up old buddies and trying to patch things up. He's always been the big brother, the umpire, taking care of everybody, even getting them all baptized at the tender age of ten. He's an all-around good guy, and actor Will Ragland succeeds in catching his startling mix of fun and gruff tenderness. Unfortunately for him, Curley may have bitten off more than he can chew this time: Frog and Gordon are fighting for keeps.
It's about a woman (what else?) It's about Betty, the only female in the cast, and a welcome relief from all that testosterone. Erin Smith makes a refreshing small-town girl—a woman who speaks her mind without tromping over the people around her. Very much unlike Frog. Jason Johnson serves up such a believable spit-fire performance as this red-neck extraordinaire that I swear I went to school with this guy. And while I'm glad I never dated (or married!) Frog, I was more than thrilled to spend a couple hours in his company. You will be too—Johnson is an absolute delight on the stage, especially when he's coming after Gordon, the lovable, emotional, somewhat off-balance suitor played by Elvin Clark. He's as tender as Frog is feisty, and it takes a serious blow to bring them all together again.
And therein lies my minor quibble with the production. Sartin's plot is a bit predictable, the conflict and its resolution coming too easily in spots. But this contempt bred of familiarity is quickly won over by Sartin's genius for southern dialog—always fresh and funny, never cliché. It's a script whose cadence surprises, if not its plot. And there's one last treat in store, too: Shannon Roberts has created a surprisingly emotive set for this reunion of middle aged friends. Her decrepit pier shows its age every bit as well as these old pals with their failing health, love lives, addictions, and deeply personal feuds. But like any trusty friend, or pier, everything's still standing at the end, ready for more fishing, more fighting, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit more loving.
--
Laddy Sartin's “Catfish Moon,” directed by Francis X. Kuhn.
Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through September 19. Tickets $25. Students $15.
It's time to watch the new plays hatching in South Carolina. Hope to see you there all next week (9/14-9/18) for FREE play readings, 7pm each night, at Centre Stage.
And, as if you haven't had enough, I'm hosting a play reading for a few works-in-progress over at The Bird & Baby Philosophy Club on September 19, 7pm. Bad timing, I know--so much new play-ing in one week! I could blame it on my professors and deadlines, but really, I enjoy the work too much for that.
Event Blurbage follows. You have been warned.
The Thinks We Have Thunk
Three New Works in need of Actors / Readers/ Listeners for one night of cold readings
Saturday, September 19, 2009
7:00pm - 10:30pm
The Bird & Baby Philosophy Club
1008 W. Poinsett St, Greer, SC 29650
Join us at The Bird & Baby Philosophy Club for some new play development! Member Stephanie Young has three new works that she needs to hear before sending them off for MFA-ing. We'll provide coffee and munchies, chairs and scripts. You provide the voices, the audience, the constructive critique. A good time to be had by all.
More details on the scripts:
A one-act comedy. A ten-minute drama. And the first act of something dark & surreal. If we had to rate 'em, the content in these scripts ranges from PG to R (for language, thematic content, innuendo). Anyone is welcome to come and read and/or listen, so invite your friends, but do the kind thing and let them know what they're in for!
We have reading parts for as many as 4 men, 6 women, and 3 either/or.
We can get by with as few as 3 men, 3 women, 1 either/or.
Hope to see you there!
Oh, oh, I'm packing my bags for oh, oh, Oh-Hi-Oh.
This little playwright is headed to The International Centre for Women Playwrights retreat--it kicks off on Sunday at Ohio State and The Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee Theatre Research Institute. I hope to post some stuff from our sessions and late night readings of works in progress, maybe even catch a show in downtown Columbus.
Unfortunately, this means no Greenville reviews from now until September 8, when I return from a post-retreat jaunt to Colorado.
Hopefully, I'll only be missing one show:Country Queens at Centre Stage, so check it out and tell me how it goes!
I'm trying to hit Catfish Moon over at The Warehouse when I get back, but I'm also in performances that weekend for Two Gentlemen of Verona at ye olde alma mater. Maybe Sunday.... Here's hoping you can see it before I do!
The Distracted Globe's mission is to produce classic comedies. Classic. And it is with great sorrow that I announce to you that the 80s are now considered classic. The 80s! When the hope of a jacuzzi inspired every man, and the promise of a salad bar could salvage the worst of blind dates. Also, the 80s of raging jewel tones and America's sexual identity crisis, a-bi-homo-what-on-earth-am-I-sturm-und-drang. In all this mess, it's important to have a therapist, don't you think? It's what the characters in Christopher Durang's “Beyond Therapy” would tell you. Especially the therapists.
Dr. Charlotte Wallace's programme for mental health in this milieu: sleep with whomever, whenever. Hurl vulgar epithets whenever the desire o'erwhelms you. Blind all the horses with a metal spike. It never hurts to hug Snoopy. For this sage advice you will pay more than a few pretty pennies. Just don't expect the therapist to listen real well (or at all)—or even remember your name. The poor saps who fall into Dr. Wallace's (and Dr. Framingham's) clutches...did I say clutches? I meant crotches. No! I meant, couches. Couches. The poor saps who fall into the therapists' couches act out this absurd regimen to hilarious results. Especially the therapists.
All the actors—Jared Johnson's creepy Bruce who is trying to woo Jennifer Goff's unsteady Prudence while also living with his lover (Justin Walker's stiff Bob, who wishes to lay Moses L. Rickett's none-too-empathetic Waiter)—they're all a riot—ungainly, wobbly on their feet and in their emotional lives. Especially the therapists: Rick Connor's strung-out, macho Dr. Framingham, and Kelly Wallace's psycho Dr. Wallace. While it's obvious these therapists are little more than sexual predators and voyeurs par excellence—they're the humorous highlight of the show.
Kelly is a relative newcomer to the Greenville stages, and this is her juiciest and most triumphant performance to date. If you can survive the sexual meet ups and break ups and swap outs--and Durang's often self-indulgent script (2 hours? Really?)—it's worth it to see this performance. Wallace sings! (And I'm not talking about the sort of singing done by Bob's possibly transvestite mother.) Kelly's perfectly tuned to this bizarre role, and I'd give all my pennies to sit on her couch and watch her work her crack-pot magic again.
---
Christopher Durang's “Beyond Therapy,” directed by Michele Labar. Presented by The Distracted Globe Theatre Company at Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through July 31. Tickets $7.50.
