Theatre on Fire and
Charlestown Working Theater are hosting three weeks of edgy new works from some
companies you will recognize and some you won’t—but once you’ve seen what they
can do, you won’t forget them. The productions in THE CABINET OF CURIOSITIES
(May 10-27) offer poetry as theater, piano as drama, “found object” puppetry,
personal exploration through song, choral readings and reexaminations of
women’s roles in society, from an acolyte of Charles Manson to the genius
ex-pat Gertrude Stein.
My favorite (of the
three I’ve seen so far, all wonderful, mind you) is a delightful construction
by Travis Amiel, based on the life of the ‘70s and ‘80s performance artist (as
if one could ever categorize him) Klaus NOMI. If you don’t recognize the name
NOMI, please do visit YouTube for Nomi’s exquisite performance of Purcell’s “The
Cold Song.” The company (mostly from Emerson) accomplishes the rarest of
magical feats: They pay tribute (by re-creation) while they manage to capture
Nomi’s enchanting, almost childlike spirit with their own, luminous alchemy.
Director Riley
Hillyer and company (including star turns from Aaron Drill and James La Bella)
offer gorgeous divertissements enhanced by glitter, strobes, extravagant
posturing choreography (one of Nomi’s specialties), a paper bag David Bowie (If
Marlon Brando can be a suitcase, why not?) and joyous audience participation. Drill
has a formidable falsetto (perfect for Delibes) and hilarious low notes! At the
same time, Drill inhabits Nomi’s credo “to be as natural as I can while posing
wildly.” The entire cast’s enchanting imagery and gestural language speaks
directly, without words, to the solar plexus: When they ‘oh so’ artistically
and gracefully paint Nomi’s lithe body with circular brown spots (to indicate
Kaposi’s sarcoma), it took my breath away. If only they had a longer run so you
all could experience NOMI.
Bryn Boice’s I,
SNOWFLAKE is part elegant choreo-poem, part verbatim accounts (a la Studs
Turkel) of post-election shock and mostly, as Anthem Theatre describes the
piece, a “commedia tragic-farce for the World We Live in Now.” The witnesses,
all dressed alike in crisp white shirts, black leggings and cradling IPhones,
lament the sorrows we all grieve about: global warming, violence, genocide,
nuclear annihilation and so much more and more and more.
They’re dogged by a
resilient little mime (the sensational Julee Antonellis) who is buffeted about
and dispatched numerous times (most chillingly gunned down like Trayvon Martin
and his many, many successors). Boice wisely balances the terrible sorrows and
fears with humor and cheek. We’re treated to a nifty pussycat allegory (about
abortion) and a spunky folk ditty from Sylvia Sword on ukulele (about grabbing
those pussies).
Boice offers the best
dissection I’ve yet encountered of the insidious, seemingly faultless male
catcall, “Smile,” which is punctuated by Caitlin Jones’ stellar rendition of Leslie Gore’s “You Don’t Own Me.” The ensemble of ten extraordinary women
utilizes metaphor, music, fluid movement and righteous indignation to drive
home their hopeful (thank goodness) message: Each snowflake is unique and
fragile by itself but thousands of snowflakes together can bring a city to a
halt.
Doug Wright’s lauded
one-man show, I AM MY OWN WIFE, features Gabriel Graetz (known for his
remarkable character work with many local theaters) as the German transvestite,
Charlotte von Mahlsdorf … as well as all the characters swirling around her. Charlotte survived the
Nazis, the communists, and the skinheads that followed them. The piece centers
around Wright’s discovery of the real life Malhsdorf and her inconceivable
museum (of objects she managed to squirrel away in her basement under the noses
of the Nazis). The piece includes his letters asking for interviews and his
subsequent visits to Berlin
to see her.
Graetz is thoroughly
charming as Charlotte,
self-consciously tentative and mildly flirtatious with the audience, as she
shows us her gramophone and other objets d’art. Graetz’ German is flawless,
even seductive as he reminisces about cabaret days or hums snatches of Strauss.
Graetz has an immensely touching scene as Mahlsdorf’s friend, Alfred Kirchner,
languishing in jail, reading a cheery letter from Charlotte (who may or may not
have informed on him). Director Daniel Morris and Graetz allow us to
contemplate the latter by showing Charlotte’s
calculating side (when she schemes to sell clocks to G.I.s). Just as Charlotte describes her
worn and scratched furniture (and herself, of course): “The marks [on the
chair] are proof of history.”
