Rape, tra-la-la, a chorus of make-believers of them

Picture 3“Man of La Mancha,” with national touring sensation Howard Keel, was the first staged musical I remember seeing, at a ripe young age of 9 at the Valley Forge (Pa.) Music Fair’s tent-in-the-round in 1970.

Rape was not in my vernacular then, but I fell in love with the character Aldonza, a “kitchen wench” (prostitute), and somehow keenly felt her hardship, disillusionment, strength and wrung-out, twisted passion. I’d act out her part in front of the pulled drapes in my living room — including a modified take on her gang rape scene. The brutalizing effect onstage was a mesh of music, lighting and dance, but the horror and anger spoke deeply to my prepubescent self. Unwittingly, it gave me a kind of a shield, an armor to grow into, to understand that a woman’s body is not all there is to her.

They say that those things children are too young to understand go right over their heads. I have to wonder. With the advent of the Internet, which defines and exhibits our every curiosity, I cannot imagine being a child of 9 against such a backdrop today. I might have started Googling and been gobsmacked by reality and grown terrified of theater — or men. My understanding of human relations might have been skewed if drama on the Internet, uncontrolled and unfiltered, were all I’d been exposed to — overexposed, at that.

Rape is nothing new on stage and, surprisingly, is not an uncommon topic in musicals. In 1960, “The Fantasticks” made farce of the idea of a staged assault — with ringmaster El Gallo offering a menu of rapes in the thinly cloaked “It Depends On What You Pay.” Apparently, making light of sexual assault seemed ghastly to producers of the 2006 revival, who saw fit to clean up the lyrics, changing references of “rape” to “abduction” or “masquerade”:

elgallo

El Gallo snatches his innocent young “victim,” who follows him willingly.

“ … An abduction that’s emphatic.

An abduction that’s polite.

An abduction done with Indians:

A truly charming sight.

An abduction done on horseback;

They’ll all say it’s distingué.

So you see the masquerade

Depends on what you pay. …”

The original repeated variations of “rape” in place of “abductions” — an assault to the ears of a rape survivor today.

What happened between the Sixties and now to alter our view of rape in our culture? Is it merely that it has come to dominate so much of it? Or somehow it’s less shocking. Which makes it even more so.

There could be an element of commercialism at work, at least where “The Fantasticks” is concerned. Those who hold copyrights for these shows want to get them produced as often as possible, so why not tame or temper the material to dodge the censors and see them produced more often in high schools and by mass-appeal, general-audience church and community theatre troupes.

The most recent production of “Man of La Mancha” I saw was last year, by the McLean Community Players. Though Aldonza sang the pants off of her role, the assault scene was reduced to what looked like a game of Farmer in the Dell — although that might have been explained more by the portlier cast as opposed to changing sensitivities or morals (generalized portliness being another sign of the times). I’m not judging — just saying. It is, after all, a fairly operatic show, and you need some support for those big voices.

MOLM

The 2012 production of “Man of La Mancha,” by McLean Community Players.

A few years back, Signature Theatre in Shirlington premiered a work composed by resident artist Matt Conner, “The Hollow,” which he and book writer Hunter Foster adapted from the classic “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” They took liberties, certainly, with the story, inventing a climactic scene in which the object of Ichabod Crane’s affections is raped (offstage). It wasn’t until now, pondering themes of savagery in musical theatre, that it occurred to me the second half of Signature’s premiere double feature, “The Boy Detective Fails,” was also about serial kidnappings, assault and murder — albeit, our human failing to understand or confront the ultimate evil behind such acts.

To say theatre is cathartic is an understatement. Who among us has not entertained a rape fantasy?

As “The Hollow” director Matt Gardiner explained to a TBD.com reporter at the time: “As far as a female character goes, this is the worst thing that could happen. It’s so intimate. And yet it is frequently used.”

Directors are challenged to find a way to plumb the violence with care and concern, considering many in the audience, statistically, have been touched and traumatized by rape in real life.

The TBD article made the point there were a heckuva lot of rape themes in current area shows. As more rape survivors become more vocal, as well they should be encouraged to be, you wonder about the impact on our lively arts, and how we balance imagination/escapism with verisimilitude.

Signature followed up with a play by emerging talent Paul Downs Colaizzo, “Really Really,” inspired by the Duke lacrosse team assault scandal. It was supposed to be “edgy.” But, really, it was only too real.

“It’s challenging,” Gardiner told Rebecca J. Ritzel at the time. “You want the audience to feel uncomfortable — but not so uncomfortable that it takes you out of the play completely. It’s a delicate balance.”

We are all familiar with catching a show at the local high school, and, if weapons are part of the pretense, seeing a notice in the program, as required by the local governing board, vouching that the weapons used are fake. Or signs leading into the theatre that warn patrons with certain delicate conditions that strobe lights, fake fog, startling noises or cigarettes (!) will be used — much like an amusement park ride warns pregnant riders what’s at stake.

Yet I don’t recall many “trigger warnings” being applied in theatre, advisories that depictions of rape, suicide, genocide and the like lay behind the curtain. Heavens to Betsy, if staged works had to list each trigger warning ahead of every production, programs might rival the DSM. Such a practice could wring out much of the drama or shock at the core of even the shlockiest of shows, let alone master works.

Along with a suspension of disbelief, I guess, when patrons enter a theatre they must also enter into an unwritten agreement to suspend all defenses. Vulnerability, culpability, liability — all part of the communal masquerade. Theatre is therapy. Theatre is safe.

And even though it’s a “lie,” theatre is honest. More honest, at times, than real life. Its one true mission: to spur real dialogue.

A telling ‘Souvenir’

True friends oughta tell you the bald-faced truth. Imagine you harbored delusions of grandeur — you’d rely on a friend to keep you from making a fool of yourself, right?

A dear friend of mine is co-starring in a production of Souvenir, a two-person play to benefit The Young Hearts. The non-profit was started by sisters of a 13-year-old boy who succumbed to leukemia in 1999. He remains the light of their lives, as they’ve since pumped fundraising dollars in the six-figure range to support leukemia and lymphoma research. A peppy circle of volunteers has widened to embrace hundreds of youths and adult mentors, and other worthy causes.

It’s no wonder, then, that my friend, a high school choral director and mentor to thousands of teens, would be lured like a moth to this noble calling, dust off his vocal cords and attack the piano chords with admirable vigor to play Cosmé McMoon, loyal accompanist to the 1930s-40s high-society diva Florence Foster Jenkins, whom some have called the “worst singer in the world” (or the grandmother of performance artists).

So how can I tell him what I think?

Foster Jenkins’ own friends could have been pulled from the pages of The Emperor’s New Clothes, letting her douse the public in sour sounds, drowning out the laughter. Take a listen to this authentic recording — as if someone had trained their parrot to mimic the minstrel:

Thankfully, the creative team behind Souvenir found an honest-to-good soprano, Harlie Sponaugle, to impersonate Foster Jenkins. Her tearfully funny portrayal of the diva’s ambition and artlessness catches you off-guard, forcing you to rethink the nature of entertainment and of The Entertainer’s Psyche.

But back to my friend. Honestly? Plaudits aren’t enough. This thing we do with our hands, smacking them together, standing and woot-woohing …? What is that? Not enough.

What might work: to lay back at his feet this unspeakable gift called music, which broadcasts rays of inspiration in all directions; to reflect one iota of the tenderness, dedication and finesse with which he tackles every role and lesson in his life.

They say some do, others teach? Uh-unh. He is that rare soul who teaches by doing.

Don’t miss a feelgood tale of friendship — and feel good about helping save and nurture young lives. Only two nights left: Thursday, Sept. 15, and Saturday, Sept. 17, at 7:30 p.m.

Woodson High School
Joan C. Bedinger Auditorium
9525 Main Street, Fairfax, Va.
Free and ample parking.

$10-$15 tickets are available at the door. Donations are divine.
To purchase online:

http://www.youngheartsltn.org/souvenir/purchasetickets.html

Signature Theatre’s ‘Boy Detective’ doesn’t fail and ‘The Hollow’ isn’t sleepy

Not since Harry, Hermione and Ron has there been as charming an evil-fighting trio as Billy Argo, Caroline and Fenton, in Signature Theatre‘s The Boy Detective FailsThe world premiere musical is a win-win-win for its whimsical story, score and set.

Photo by Scott Suchman, Playbill.com. From left, James Gardiner as Fenton, Stephen Gregory Smith as Billy Argo and Margo Seibert as his sister, Caroline.

Boyish Stephen Gregory Smith was born to play Billy — part Ralph from A Christmas Story and part Jack Salmon, the haunted dad of the murdered teen in The Lovely Bones. In the case of Billy Argo, he knows his beloved sister took her own life, but despite his crime-solving and truth-telling afflictions, the 30-year-old character is stuck — facing his biggest mystery of all: “Why?”

Smith interprets his character’s arrested development, somewhere between his ‘tweens and post-traumatic OCD, never as robotic or smart-alecky but with a bewitching mix of genius and goofiness. He extracted giddy tears from this audience member with a mere shrug.

The story is faithful to Joe Meno‘s 2006 achingly tender novel — no wonder, the Chicago author adapted it for stage. Our family was lucky to get clued in two summers ago while it was in workshop at the Tony-winning Arlington, Va., theater. So delighted to hear it would be mounted in repertory with The Hollow this season — with a superb ensemble ricocheting between shows —  we snapped up tickets, even flying in our party from Chicago and New Orleans during Hurricane Irene — a family dinner-date night topping $1,000.

Probably the best compliment to Meno, composer-lyricist Adam Gwon, and the players who presented it in 2009, unadorned with only cheat sheets on music stands, was we felt this debut was our second time fully seeing it. Brilliant scenic designer Derek McLane accessorized our imaginations with the trappings of funky dollhouses, a freakish funhouse and a gloomy cavern where you felt the chill and drips pinging off the psyche. Among my favorite moments in the score, besides its inventive and poetic songs, came in the carnivalesque accompaniment to Billy’s workplace and squeaky-swing sounds from the strings.

“Team Fails”: We had registered for the preview weekend “Boy Detective” scavenger hunt, which was blown by Hurricane Irene. We entered virtually … and, despite getting the answers right, lost on the draw.

James Gardiner, a Signature pillar and twin brother of Hollow director Matt Gardiner, proves a master of disguise as sidekick Fenton, contorting his rubber face to hilarious effect. Margo Seibert as the complicated Caroline is ethereal and elegant, with a voice to match. Anika Larsen is adorable, if a bit breathy, as Billy’s romantic foil, pickpocket Penny Maple — but she left my 23-year-old daughter, Miki, a singer-actress herself, breathless. Miki’s a HUGE fan of Zanna, Don’t! (show of hands?) and it turns out Larsen played Roberta, alongside Queer Eye‘s Jai Rodriguez, so she kept reminding us we were in the presence of musical-theater royalty.

But I bow to Thomas Adrian Simpson, king of villains as Professor von Golum (and creepy Charles Claassen in The Hollow). A standout vocally with his honey-rich baritone, he’s as wacky as Christopher Lloyd’s Emmett Brown on quaaludes. Shout-out also to textured character actor Harry A. Winter — best thing about writing parts for older actors is you can find the best of the best of the pros.

See production photos at Playbill.com

Walk-up coverage at Washington Post.com

Boy Detective‘s play-date mate, The Hollow, adapted by composer-lyricist Matt Conner and book writer Hunter Foster from Washington Irving‘s legendary Legend of Sleepy Hollow, takes more liberties with its source material.

As far as I’m concerned, this creative duo can take any liberties they like. Conner, a frolicking fixture in the Signature lobby where he “tickles the ivories,” famously doesn’t read music. His lush, lilting melodies are puzzled out and orchestrated by others.

The Hollow’s seamless, fluttering score, airier than other Conner works (including Nevermore, his ode to Edgar Allan Poe being restaged Oct. 7-30 at Artspace Falls Church) is relentlessly hypnotic — but in no way “sleepy.” The audience feels dunked into an undulating, raging river. And the galloping story in the hands of Foster — yes, Sutton’s brother, but I’m guessing the more aesthetic and well-read of the multitalented siblings — packs a wallop to match. Against its eerie backdrop of skeletal branches and leaf litter, with sound and lighting effects conjuring up demons, the show is confined to a single act — which seems almost an act of mercy. By that I mean I’m unsure the tension could be sustained much longer without something snapping.

The ensemble’s collective vocal chops — especially known-goddess Tracy Lynn Olivera and Whitney Bashor (as Katrina), whose riff on The Lord’s Prayer brought me nearly to my knees — surpass anything I’ve heard at Signature. (Except maybe Chess.)

Darin Ellis, a rising D.C.-area theater star who was taken from us too soon.

Sam Ludwig, as interloper Ichabod Crane, is refreshingly genteel, not the cartoonish buffoon of childhood memory. With his bottomless knapsack of books and perky wit, his is a sweet voice of reason — almost Jeffersonian — amid Tarrytown’s puritanical zombies.

I couldn’t help but see weird parallels to The Music Man: the deceptive outsider Harold Hill disturbing the peace among Iowa’s most stubborn, while channeling a fair, innocent boy to woo the most unattainable bachelorette in town. But that dream bubble burst with the shuddering realization that Crane REALLY GOT TROUBLE among radicals who burn books and are capable of worse than tarrin’- and-featherin’-and-ridin’-him-out-on-a-rail.

The only void in The Hollow is the notable absence of Darin Ellis, who originated the role of the village drunk, here brusquely shouldered by Russell Sunday. In a tribute to the promising Ellis, who died unexpectedly last summer at age 24, the character name has been changed to “Ellis” Buren. Bravo, class act, guys.

This year’s boy-wonder discovery, no doubt, is Noah Chiet, playing precocious Peter, or precociously playing Peter. And can’t overlook the workhorse of the cast, versatile Sherri Edelen — loved her in Joe Calarco’s Walter Cronkite Is Dead and, if I’m not mistaken, it was she who pinch-hitted as Penny in Signature’s Open House on July 23.

The twin whodunnits left some patrons scratching their heads — but charismatic chameleon Evan Casey (nailing Killer Kowalzavich in Boy Detective and Brom Van Brunt in The Hollow, among other roles) seems the likeliest suspect. Typecast, anyone?

We’d put Billy on the case of solving the murky endings, but on nights when he’s not center stage, he’s been spied tending bar.

Both shows run through Oct. 16. For tickets, visit: http://www.signature-theatre.org/tickets

Bonus feature for those reading to the end: Here is a Boy Detective fan’s interpretation of the novel’s set-up, which loosely translates into a nine-minute opening in the Joe Calarco-directed masterpiece.

And here is a Boy Detective song already making rounds as a cabaret scene — unfortunately not performed by Smith and Larsen. (Can’t wait for the original cast recording. Broadway, here comes the little show that can!)

Why we laugh at losers: Dissecting Louis C.K.

Louie (TV series)

Image via Wikipedia

I’m a die-hard fan of Louis C.K. and Louie (Thursdays, 10:30 p.m. ET on FX Network, at the time of this posting). But C.K.’s seriocomedy isn’t offering much in the way of comic relief these days. The plot lines seem increasingly horrific. Maybe they’ve always been, and I’m just now noticing because I had to catch up on several episodes in one night.

Tickling with feathers

Let’s see: “Duckling” — an idea conceived by C.K.’s real-life 6-year-old daughter, Mary Louise Szekely — plopped the comic into the heart of the Afghanistan War, with all of its grim baggage. Still, it conquers with “heart” as his screen daughter, worried for her dad’s welfare, sneaks the classroom mascot into his duffel as an amulet. Scary war, with a warm-fuzzy touch.

The “Niece” episode explores child neglect and mental illness. “Eddie” is about suicide, while refreshingly non-judgmental. “Country Drive” riffs on racism and stars a corpse. (No disrespect to nonagenarian Eunice Anderson’s acting.)

Hats off to the comedian for gingerly handling sobering topics that have become his bread-and-butter: depression, divorce, meaninglessness, while always managing a twinkle in his eye, a glimmer of hope, like Tinker-Bell among marauding villains.

Revolutionary evolutionary comedy

Has modern comedy gotten too serious? Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert’s satirical news shows prompt side-splitting laughter, yet they’re merely telling it like it is. It’s actually hard to find any good escapist comedy these days. Louis C.K.’s genius offerings are so real and honest, they often make me wanna cry. Can’t remember the last time I LOL’ed watching it. My emotions puddle inside.

Licensed by CreativeCommons. “You’re rubber, I’m glue, whatever I say, bounces off of you and sticks on me?” Jim Carrey in Spain.

Laughing through tears is “soitenly” nothing new. As cutting-edge as Louis C.K. seems, his is a tried-and-true formula: stand-up from the down and downtrodden, laughing at the tears of a clown. From the woebegone Charlie Chaplin and Jack Benny, to Rodney “Don’t Get No Respect” Dangerfield and the nerdy slapshtick of Jerry Lewis … Jim Carrey’s “loo-HOO-seh-HER” springs to mind, an attack launched at others but landing on him … even the repressed/oppressed Woody Allen, “Hungarican” Freddie Prinze and countless other “subjugated” minority and female comedians — much of it stems from Schadenfreude, mirth at the misfortune of others. We’re glad we’re not that guy. Or maybe we are that guy, and that’s why we get the gag. Feeling ticklish, after all, is but the realization that an assault that could hurt us doesn’t — the momentary fear of an attack that proves non-life-threatening, so we laugh in relief and acceptance and trust-bonding, so they say. Here’s how the hilarious “Avenue Q” explains taking pleasure at another’s pain:

When at war, DUCK!! Or make “Duck Soup.” Licensed by CreativeCommons

Does that mean comedy is mean-spirited at its core? I don’t think so, but more and more it’s the absurdist view that sells, while the madcap-screwball variety seems passé. That must be a reflection of society, but someone smarter than I am can analyze it.

In terms of comic art, Louis C.K. is that rare practitioner who packs a lot of punch into his non-punch lines and running-on-emptiness perspective. The material he draws upon, his real-life fatherhood, is also what seems to inject the dark show with its bright spots. These innocents, his own duckling kids, ultimately make life worthwhile in spite of himself. The show is inconceivable without the drama of those little girls, just as it seems C.K. hit his stride only after their real-world arrival added charm and stark contrast to his act.

Kinda glad Louis C.K. didn’t dedicate all of his life to masturbation and squeezed in some procreation there.

As much as I enjoyed the heralded “Duckling” episode (based on C.K.’s own USO tour in 2008 to Kuwait, Iraq and Afghanistan), it seemed a bit predictable for Louie. For me, the Louie episode dubbed “Halloween/Ellie” — touching on random violence yet somehow skirting Halloween horrors — may prove C.K.’s most telling of the season. For all of the “loserdom” the show glorifies, the Louie character acts almost heroically  — granted, only after taking a cue from 5-year-old Jane.

The episode also seems to sum up C.K.’s approach to his art, when his character gets a golden chance to be golden boy to a Paramount Pictures exec, who sees promise in him and could help turn his life around. Of course, he blows it, with this movie pitch:

“You know how movies … there’s always a guy and, like, his life is always OK, and then something happens, there’s a conflict, and he gets to resolve it and then his life gets better? Well, I always wanted to make a movie where a guy’s life is really bad and then something happens and it makes it worse, but instead of resolving it, he just makes bad choices and then it goes from worse to really bad, and things just keep happening to him and he keeps doing dumb things, so his life just gets worse and worse and, like, darker and … he lives in a one-room apartment, he’s not a very good-looking guy, has no friends and he works in, like, a factory … a sewage disposal plant! and then he gets fired, so now he doesn’t even have his job at the shit factory anymore, and he’s going broke, and he takes a trip and it rains … just stuff, shit keeps .. horrible .. and then he meets a girl and she’s beautiful and he falls in love, so you think that’s gonna be the thing, the happy thing! but then she turns out to be a crook and she robs him, she takes his wallet and now he’s, like, stuck in the middle of nowhere and he’s got no wallet, no credit cards. Like, what do you do? how do you even get home …?”

I like to imagine that was close to the pitch C.K. made to get his Louie pilot off the ground two seasons ago. Don’t miss the season finale, “Airport / New Jersey,” this Thursday, Sept. 8, at 10:30 p.m. on FX.

Louie, Louie, Louie, Loo-whee!!

And here is, not a clip from “Duckling,” but part of his bit on “duck vaginas,” which he recasts in the Louie stand-up segment. Warning: This is not “Duck Soup.” Also, it’s striking how peppy Louis C.K. is compared with his dour doppelganger on Louie.