Results tagged “philadelphia inquirer” from Drama Queen

Sugg is a member of Philly's own polymorphous and occasionally perverse troupe Pig Iron Theatre Company. Pig Iron and its people have won much acclaim here and elsewhere, this, for Sugg's performance in Chekov Lizardbrain, being their second Obie (the first was for 2004's Hell Meets Henry Halfway), along with who knows how many other awards--Sugg already has 4 Barrymores of his own. The group's work is as eclectic as their multiple personalities. Dito Van Riegersberg often hosts cabarets as his much-beloved, hairy-Hedwigged, Bowie-channeling alter-ego, Martha Graham Cracker. Geoff Sobelle rocked both coasts with his critically hailed Buster Keaton homage All Wear Bowlers. As a collective, they've skewered Quinceaneras, turned Joan of Arc into a French clown, and revisited Measure for Measure in a morgue, with puppets. And if you're tempted to say, "Nice. Sounds pretentious," well, yeah, sometimes they are, but mostly they're not. Somehow they pull it off nearly every time and leave you basking in their awesomeness and ever-expanding potential. The company's dozen or so members come and go, and even when they're together don't always appear as expected. Sugg won his Obie as an actor, but he's just as comfortable behind an accordion, pen, or soundboard. 

Sugg first showed up on the local stage in 1998 and astonished audiences as a sort of one-man-band in Gentlemen Volunteers, (At right: Dito Van Riegersberg and Gabriel Quinn Beauriedel) a musical-ish examination of World War I ambulance drivers, Ernest Hemingway included. But the reason I'm thanking him here is because at the 2006 Philadelphia Live Arts/Fringe Festival, he premiered an original musical work called The Sea. It's the story of a drowned sea captain and his lost daughter, and watching it was like sucking down a saltwater Waits and Weill cocktail from deep below decks. 

I wasn't working at the time, which meant I actually had to pay for my tickets, and yet I was still disappointed he wasn't selling recordings of the show. As in, I would have gladly shelled out for that, too.  Anyway, upon reading the next day's Philadelphia Inquirer review, I was shocked--Shocked!--to find the assigned reviewer considerably less impressed. That week, I called up the paper, asked if they were short a critic, e-mailed some clips, and got myself a new job. I hadn't realized how much I missed being moved by a piece of theater, and having the privilege of telling the city about it, until I found myself powerless in the face of unfair, unenlightened criticism (ok, it was neither unfair nor unenlightened, but I totally didn't agree with it). And yes, I get the irony here, but that's another discussion for another time.

So I'm declaring my love openly, for all to read: thanks Mr. Sugg, for being the kind of artist whose performances inspire action, and thanks Pig Iron, for keeping your work in Philly and giving us first dibs on everything you do. 

For more on James Sugg, read this article by my colleague Howard Shapiro, from today's Philadelphia Inquirer.

The bad news first: unfortunately, some of our coverage--basically anything over an hour's drive from the city--has been reduced. It appears we'll no longer cover regular Broadway openings, which is a shame (read: downright remiss) since as far as theater goes around these parts, Broadway's basically another one of our suburbs. However, we'll still be looking at New York productions when there's a local connection, which, considering the output of Pig Iron folks alone, ought to result in plenty of Amtrak mileage.

And if any play cries out for some helpful linkage, it's this one. Here's the review as it appears on Philly.com (please click the link; every visitor counts, you know). Keep this screen open, and when you get to the appropriate phrase over there, come back over here and click. Even better, set yourself up at the computer, newspaper in hand, and... Well, you get the idea. It's like those old children's books on tape that beeped when you were supposed to turn the page. Fun, right? No? Too bad. For us both.

(Below: Werner Heisenberg and Niels Bohr knocking back a few liquid particles in 1934.)

This week I'm macking on: The sheer variety of holiday shows that aren't A Christmas Carol. There's so much to choose from I don't think the Inquirer is even reviewing any of the local Dickens efforts, though they have an whole separate calendar listing section for them. (Don't quote me on that--they might sneak in one or two reviews that I don't know about. The important thing, really, is that I'm not reviewing any of them.) You might feel differently, but then, you're probably not a theater critic if you do. 

This week I'm hating on: The economy. And not just because my portfolio is really starting to sag from all the deflated Ford, GM and Tribune stock that used to keep it filled to a perky, respectable, blue-chip-studded C-cup. Although it is. No, I'm hating on the economy today because people are killing each other at Wal-Mart for discounts on crappy Chinese and Bangladeshi crap, instead of treating their families to all those awesome holiday shows. Just when theaters are feeling comfortable enough to start taking chances, they're rewarded by stagnation the likes of which we haven't seen since Annie was adopted. I wonder how many companies will survive into the next season, and I'm desperately afraid that most of the young ones will be knocked out, let alone those with big, new houses that need to be filled in order to keep the lights on. All this, just as we--and by we, I mean Philadelphia, though you may certainly insert your own city's name here--were starting to make some headway on this "arts economy" thing. If you're of a certain political bent, you could probably see it as a natural culling of the herd, but then, you could also see it as the innocent suffering the sins of the wicked. In any case, given the choice between the "arts economy" and the "economy economy," I'll take what the arts economy has to offer to what's left of our civilization any day. 

I suppose part of the reason for the change is that everyone's capitalizing on the election, but really, it started with a recent thrust of nontraditional casting before Obama became the clear presidential candidate and has just sort of snowballed. And while this mass shift in programming focus is certainly long overdue and welcome, well, it begs the real question: why can't Philadelphia, a city whose population is 45% African American, support a dedicated professional African American theater? Since Walter Dallas' departure and Freedom Repertory Theatre's demise (and that's a whole 'nother long story) no one has stepped in to fill the void, and I'm going to guess it's not because Philadelphians are okay with leaving the issue of inclusion to the whims of the city's various white artistic directors, or catching the random touring urban theater production. 

Mind you, I'm not knocking the efforts at diversity being made by any of these other companies. I think it's great for the city and even better for expanding everyone's audience base. But honestly, what is going on here, and why? 

Here's my review of Master Harold from Today's Inquirer.

*By the way Philly folks, I'm omitting InterAct from inclusion and discussion on this post, as their commitment to programming diversity has been part of their mission since the company's inception.

I don't believe in critical boosterism, nor do I think it's my job to keep theaters in business, but there comes a point when a critic has to ask herself if perhaps the problem is a difference in taste, rather than simply a dearth of quality. So no, this wasn't the best Sherlock Holmes I've ever seen, and though it was an uneven production, it was good enough to deliver at least part of the experience I wanted when I left the house that evening. This time, rather than chastising the company for my perception of its comfort with mediocrity, I sat back and accepted it for what it was: a suburban theater with pretty conventional tastes. And that night I had a pretty good time.

This doesn't mean I'll always cut them slack; after all, I'm worried about my credibility, not theirs. But still, it's a lesson in context, which is important for everyone to remember, whether reading or writing a review. When McCarter stumbles--as I believe they did in their latest production--it's one thing. But judging a small local house by the same standard is another. They don't get a pass, of course, because that would be irresponsible on my part, but they do get credit for knowing what their audience wants when they leave the house, even if it might not be exactly what I'm looking for.

Here's today's review from the Philadelphia Inquirer. 

P.S., the first line contains a typo. It should read, "our collective anxiety," not "collection anxiety." And no one deserves slack for letting that slide.

Maybe a young male director has more at stake in Dennis'  self-mythologizing. If Dennis is completely full of crap and bluster, well then, what does that say about a director who identifies with him? Apply this question to Lonergan's constant reminders that the guy you are in 20 years will be a pale reflection of the guy you are today, and you've just provided the bellows that will fan Dennis' bonfire of the vanities into an inferno. A woman can see right through Dennis' bluff without any ill personal effects. However, I'm sure it's no coincidence that in the second production, the female character, Jessica, is far more sympathetic than in the first. 

Here's today's review from the Philadelphia Inquirer coupled with my review of the earlier show. 

I'm sort of split on the idea of posting my reviews here, since they're local and you're probably not. But I'm going to do it anyway, because, well, they're online, and so are you. You can feel free to let me know if this exercise adds nothing (or something!) to your Drama Queen experience.

Below: a video of G&EA's rehearsal process. Fairly pretentious and kind of ridiculous, but then again, rehearsals probably shouldn't be filmed anyway. The show was much better than this would lead you to believe.