Fire for Fire

Let’s Talk About Shakes, Baby – The Orlando Shakespeare Center

I’ve been contacted numerous times about this issue, so I’d like to set the record straight: I love the Orlando Shakespeare Center. Moreover, I think you should to. I admire the hard work their staff puts in, the typically high quality of work they produce, the admirable way in which they run their facility, their fantastic ability to play host and their thorough dedication to the arts. The Shakes is an organization that should be commended not only for what they bring to the city, but for the tireless capacity in which they do so.

Do I have issues with how the Shakes operates? A few, many I’ve discussed: rental prices, non-Orlando actors, play choices. These, though, are part of what I see as a conversation – to quote the Bard himself, “to set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown; but where there is true friendship, there needs none.”. The issues I have tried to raise regarding the Shakes have not been out of malice, but out of my believe that true friendship in an artistic community means spurring others to do their best, calling them out when they fall short, and praising them in their deserved successes. Continue reading »

Samuel

January 29, 2013

News, Rants

0 comments

love, orlando, shakes, shakespeare

Two Houses, but How Alike in Dignity – The Orlando Shakespeare Theater’s “Othello”, Lake Howell High School’s “Antony and Cleopatra” and the Disservice of Blind Reverence to the Bard

There are things we all know. Communism works on paper; the Civil War was about slavery; Shakespeare was a genius; and on and on. These are societal truths that are passed along, and one can utter them freely in public without the fear of sounding stupid, or having the opinion challenged or, most importantly, without having to know anything about the subject at hand.

The trouble, though, is that such generalities only exist in a black and white world, and ours is a world of vibrant color. Communism works given certain conditions, based upon certain models of human behavioral and philosophical position. The Civil War was equally about the power of individual States and the Federal Government coupled with a growing animosity within the Union beginning in Jacksonian democracy. And William Shakespeare cranked out some pure shit.

That’s not, of course, to say the man wasn’t a genius. He was. His best works, “Hamlet”, “Macbeth”, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, “Romeo and Juliet”, are amongst the greatest works in the canon of English literature. Hell, any man who can compose these lines:

I tell thee that her sparkling eyes

Do lighten forth sweet love’s alluring fire;

And in her tresses she doth fold the looks

Of such as gaze upon her golden hail.

Her bashful white, mix’d with the morning’s red,

Luna doth boast upon her lovely cheeks;

Her front is beauty’s table, where she paints

The glories of her gorgeous excellence.

How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe

This is the short and the long of it

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall

Clearly has chops. Shakespeare’s place in the body of literature, though, is so monumental that all of his works are considered masterpieces, even those that are either poorly written, patently absurd or painfully dull. Though there may be the Gore Vidals and Alan Blooms of the world, who swear by the Bard and think nothing will ever surpass his majesty which evinces itself in every word the man penned, the rest of the thinking world can, pretty early on, realize that like any great writer Shakespeare has some masterpieces, some decent works and some works that are plain bad (“Cymbaline”, “Two Gentlemen of Verona”, “Henry IV”, “Timon of Athens” and “King John” spring quickly to mind).

The problem with Shakespeare isn’t the hallowed ground afforded him, though- it’s how that ground eats into the rest of the culture landscape, leaving barren that which could see fruit. More on that in a moment. First, the shows:

The Orlando Shakespeare Theater’s production of “Othello” is, at best, mediocre. Actors wander around the expansive stage with no visible sense of purpose or comradery, deliver vast swaths of dialog while waving their hands grandly, then (if they are a woman) slink off stage or (if they are a man) run off stage. There’s no cohesive vision driving the production, nothing new or interesting in this staging of the 400-year old play. It’s a lesson in elocution from people dressed oddly.

The impending mediocrity of the show does receive interesting foreshadowing – for the curtain speech an actor emerges to ask the audience they silence their phones and state that no recording is allowed. The actor then proceeds to ask the audience to applaud for the three corporate sponsors of the show, “without whom it wouldn’t have been possible”. The paying audience ($40 a pop) dutifully obliged. Last I checked one need not pay for the rights to stage Shakespeare, and the Orlando Shakespeare Center paid their dollar-a-year rent en-mass with a $30 check in 1997, so the only cost I can see is utilities. The corporate sponsors, then, are really to thank for the spectacle.

The two greatest elements of the show, the stage and the costumes, end up causing more problems than they’re worth. Set on three tiers (not unlike a small “Q*Bert” stage) with two sizable rectangles down stage, the set is gorgeous – from the attention to detail in the paint, to the crafted arches, to the chaining matte behind the false bricks; it’s all very convincing. Sadly, Director Brian Vaughn chooses to stage virtually all of the action downstage center; meaning anytime two people are talking to one another (or, in this show, at one another) they end up sitting on the rectangles. Seeing as there are usually wearing swords, this leads to a fair amount of clunking, and left most of the blocking obviously staged, with characters in a perpetual state of movement for no other reason than to move. Worse still, to preface act V the steps at the rear of the stage pull out, revealing a bed. Wonderful. Then comes, literally, three minutes of the audience watching the actors make the bed – sheet, blanket, pillows – the whole nine yards. Riveting theater it isn’t.

The costumes in the show are sumptuous, and a keen eye has been paid to details, from the proper manner of armor to the correct seal for the City of Venice at the time. Unfortunately, as the actors aren’t, presumably, used to wearing the garb of Elizabethan Venice, they often stumble over bits of clothing, or, most annoyingly, rest their hands on the pommels of their rapiers (which are held in what’s known as a “frog”, a short sling). The rapiers don’t have scabbards, so leaning ones hand with the weight down on a frog is about the same as a modern soldier holding his M4 rifle with his finger perpetually on the trigger – all one is accomplishing is straining the leather, which would eventually break.

When the swords come out of their frogs, nothing particularly exciting happens. The fight choreography is sufficient but boring. Again, the actors clearly haven’t been told what to do – when, in a drunken brawl, four soldiers draw their weapons they are all holding their swords in a different way. One of them, amusingly, in his left-hand (the only rapier of the time one could use with their left hand was the Milanese; everyone was taught to fight right-handed). The one thing the actors accomplish together is to all, when holding their weapons, expose as much of their body to their opponent as possible. As they pace around one another it looks more like a pending gunfight in the old American West than pending European swordplay. Most perplexing, though, is Othello. Rather than take a rapier the Moor favors a scimitar. Whenever fighting, though, his massive, sweeping, heavy sword isn’t used to simply crash through the thin steel of his Italian counterparts; instead the man who is meant to be a grand warrior and military genius uses the weapon as one uses a knitting-needle. In act V a soldier (and his two pound rapier) manages to keep low the drawn scimitar (easily 4 pounds and 60 times as wide) of Othello. Bizarre.

Vaughn further frustrates by making Iago’s asides “a-fronts”, inasmuch as Iago begins talking (and on several occasions actually pointing directly at) the audience. With Iago one has two choices: the complete maniac who wreaks havoc just to do so, or the calculating puppet-master who revels in the genius of his own plans. These asides try to make him both, which only serves to make him neither. Even more perplexingly, after Othello suffers his seizure and is advised by Iago to retreat so he can hear Casio’s “confession”, the weakened General, panting and moaning, uses the railing in the audience to help get him to the balcony. Is the audience now part of the set? It’s been a while since I’ve seen such a cavalier breaking of the fourth wall, and one that no one, it seems, bothered to think about.

The actors turn in serviceable performances – Shannon Michael Wamser as Casio being the most consistent and convincing, with Suzanna O’Donnell as Emilia turning in a solid performance in both the comedic and dramatic elements of the role. Anne Hering’s Duchess is painful (each line that rhymes receives a beat in the middle), John Keller’s Rodrigo (who is used shamelessly for myriad cheap laughs) is as funny as his character. Any woman tasked with playing a woman in a Shakespearean play takes on a Sisyphusian effort (weep…now talk for 30 lines); Lindsey Keller’s Desdemona is, well, there – neither giving to the story nor, fortunately, taking away. The rest of the cast are used as little more than props.

The leads, Martin Yurek as Iago and Esau Pritchett as Othello, simply do not bring the gravitas needed to their respective roles to give the show the breath needed to live. Yurek’s dialog sounds rather like Bob Ross talking to himself about “happy little trees”, not caring who hears him, and the actor somehow manages to squeeze a “u” sound into “Moor” (creating “M-your”).Yurek is chosen to end the first segment by throwing Desdemona’s handkerchief in the air and catching it: the look of relief as the lights dimmed and his fist clenched around the flung fabric shows the range of the character. Pritchett is more aloof and confusing – completely flat in the first three acts he does generate steam in the fourth and fifth; it feels though that Pritchett, reprising his role as Othello, has already made his choices and commits to them. When he first raises his hand and strikes Desdemona true conflict floods his face. The second time he raises the back of his hand to her there isn’t even a hint that he means it. When he raises the back of his hand to threaten Emilia, it’s in the form of a fist, making it unclear as to whether he plans to slap her or deliver some sort of spinning backfist.

This “Othello” is no different than any other one could see in dozens of regional theaters in cities across the US. Indeed, it may be on the slightly lower side of “average”: no vision, no aim, listless and without energy.

In complete contrast, Lake Howell High School’s production of “Antony and Cleopatra,” was a joy for a High School production, and would have been perfectly passable as adult community theater.

The stage is gorgeous: twin mammoth statues flanking on either side, well struck veils and crafted lights to switch moods, a pond at stage center for the actors to sink into; it stood in equal comparison to the set of “Othello”. Adapted by James Brendlinger (who also Directed) the script washes away much of the unnecessary, rambling monologues, combines several messengers into one (named Gallus, allowing for an interesting new story arch) several aids into one (named Eros, servant of Antony) and uses the Soothsayer to advance the story rather than pages of dialog. In a master-stroke the monologue wherein Gallus tells to Rome (staged down-stage left) of Mark Antony’s first glimpse of Cleopatra in her vessel on the Nile the main stage becomes a haunting flashback as the stage curtain opens, revealing the boat in all its splendor, Cleopatra atop surrounded by servants, oarsmen below moving in unison.

The total cast and crew numbers nearly 70. Still, Kaitlyn Harrington as Stage Manager (with only two assistants) ensured there was never a moment seen by the audience that implied haste, worry or confusion. Indeed, the only error in the show was masterfully covered: in a scene wherein Mark Antony grows increasingly angry towards Cleopatra for her “poisoning his mind,” Antony rose from Cleopatra’s bed, only to find a pillow stuck to his tasseled Roman garb. A small murmur ran through the audience. Completely in character, Antony grabbed the pillow, scolded Cleopatra with a strong “why do you even buy these?” and hurled the pillow off stage, then continued with the scene.

Likewise particularly impressive, was the fight choreography. Rather than the 4 to 5 steps and 3 to 4 thrusts of “Othello,” the audience was treated to a full minute and a half sword fight between the Captain of the Monkey Guards and the Captain of Caeser’s invading troops. The fight felt real, violent and exciting; the actors moved without trepidation- they covered the axis of the stage, using it in the fight itself. One of the better fights I’ve seen on an Orlando stage in some time.

The show was accompanied by a live band (wonderfully effective at the shows climax when the band includes vocals in their cover of Depeche Mode’s classic “Shake the Disease”, “Some people have to be, Permanently together, Lovers devoted to, Each other forever” – a link for a live taping of the song, which also shows the stage, follows; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=odTTLycn7QQ). Comprised of “The Summer Januaries” (summerjanuaries.wordpress.com) and student performers, the band was led by a banjo/bass/drum combination, with gorgeous accents from cello, violin, oboe, glockenspiel and vocals.

In the midst of the actors and the monkeys, Brendlinger used a chorus of belly dancers, creating a fully immersive spectacle. At intermission the lead dancer, an elegant wisp of style and grace, took to the stage and, accompanied by the band, performed with equal parts precision, skill, intensity and ardor – effectively bridging the two acts, rather than leaving the stage cold.

The cast was, by and large, impressive for a group of high school students. Zev Halikman’s Lepidus, Jessica McPherson’s Charmian, Cody Moss’s Eros and Donald Johnston Junior’s Gallus are all played with zeal and understanding rare in young actors; and each demonstrates an impressive range without over emoting. Johnston Junior’s performance when discovered by Mark Antony kissing Cleopatra, and the ensuing whipping and beating, was especially well performed. Each- I’d levy- could, with a month of training, have filled any of the secondary roles in “Othello” without much of a notable difference. There are no genuinely terrible performances: some aren’t particularly good, but as the actors are High School students I don’t think it appropriate to name them.

Without question, though, the finest performance is that of Josh Melendez as Mark Antony. Equipped with the rare to command attention on the stage without showboating, Melendez plays Mark Antony perfectly: a near-god made mortal, a legend come laughing stock on account of his own mistakes. Malendez’s choices are neat and clean; there’s no over the top theatrics or warrantless inflection. Instead he utilizes effective beats, vocal choices and a burning intensity to not only make the audience interested in Antony, but to make the audience care about his fate. An impressive accomplishment.

There are some odd moments and mistakes in the show. A metal shield was thrown off, causing a rather loud clunk. Technical issues meant most of the mic’ed actors (the leads) delivered their first lines in a scene without amplification before the speakers sprang to life. These little quibbles, though, were easily forgiven and forgotten for one simple reason: the audience was enjoying the show.

It was sitting in the audience of “Antony and Cleopatra” that I realized the primary difference between the two shows: the reason that at the intermission of “Othello” I passed more groups of the audience talking about how much longer the show would be running than any other topic of conversation, while at the intermission of “Antony and Cleopatra,” the majority of conversation revolved around whether or not Mark Antony was being an idiot for leaving his empire to take up with Cleopatra. Passion. Those involved with the production of “Antony and Cleopatra”, from the backstage to front of house to the cast, wanted to be doing it- an attitude that bled into the audience. Those involved with “Othello” seemed bored by the entire process- an attitude of yawns that, likewise, bled into the audience.

What, then, (to crib Ardrey) do we marvel at? If we are to be known amongst the stars by our poems, to which verses are we paying service? The point I wish to raise is not, perhaps, the performances themselves, it’s equally important what performances are to come. Lake Howell High School will stage “I Love You Because”, “Anne Frank – Superstar” and “Rent”; the remainder of the Shakes signature series consists of “Sense and Sensibility” and “Titus Andronicus” (advertised with the taglines “Shakespeare’s Bloodiest Blockbuster” and “The Pulp Fiction of the Elizabethan Age”, both such stupid phrases as to make me want to slap myself in the face for having read them).

By no means am I suggesting Shakespeare doesn’t have a place in modern theater. Of course he does. Granted if any of his works were published today (minus the iambic pentameter) they would be laughed off the stage for having unbelievable characters, deux-ex-machina by the barrel-full and no sense of internal motivation. His works, though, especially the good ones, are a vital part of a person’s theatrical education, and should be seen.

For the past ten years the Signature Series at the Orlando Shakespeare Center has, though, been comprised of half Shakespearean works and half other (and the other isn’t exactly recent material – the most recent show I can remember was the staging of “The Importance of being Ernest”). Moreover, with tickets costing (for Friday and Saturday shows) between $30 and $40 and (for Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday Matinées) between $20 and $35 the Signature Series effectively prices out all those but the upper middle-class (to take a family of four to a Friday night show would cost, at the cheapest, $100 – or 12.8 hours of working for minimum wage).

As the Shakes survives on the largess of the Orange County taxpayer and, through their venue rental pricing structure, prohibits any meaningful rental of their space by independent companies (http://www.samuelbutcher.net/shakes/), they have a duty to serve as the cultural hub of the Orlando Theatrical community. It is sad to say they do. For the Shakes provides for its patrons exactly what they want; the illusion of culture without the need to work for it.

Some may say Orlando deserves better: I say Orlando is getting exactly what it is asking for. Rather than demanding plays of higher quality or wider reach the average member of the audience at the Shakes seems content to be at a show for the sake of being there – that to have said they saw the show is more important to them than the show itself. I know the Shakes isn’t about to begin staging a host of modern works, but surely there’s room for more of the “classics”; more Ibsen, more Chekhov, more Shaw, more Beckett, more O’Neil. Does anyone seriously think a staging of “Titus Adronicus” is worth more to a community than “Waiting for Godot”, or “Pygmalion”, or “The Cherry Orchard”?

Culture is not something you can buy. Being seen is not as important as seeing. Buying a ticket for a Shakespeare show doesn’t make you classy; accepting that literature has a learning curve, and working to acquire the knowledge to fill the taste, does. In a culture where too much is spoon fed the best of what we have to offer should not be so easily thrown away.

To quote from “Othello”, “Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving”. We can, as a city, continue to accept sub-par work and think it betters us simply because of the name on the playbill, or we can work to see staged those pieces of man’s better angels that survive history not for their covers but for their content.

An apt summation from the introduction to “Othello”; the Orlando Shakespeare Center announced what will be the centerpiece of their next Signature Series. The play? “Nicholas Nickleby”, which will feature “30 actors playing over 100 characters in over 1,000 costume pieces across two nights”. That’s not a show, it’s a spectacle. It’s not something you engage with, it’s something you endure. But the Shakes will sell their tickets, the audience will think themselves better though they don’t understand what’s happening on stage, and far away, in a room piled high with plays of substance closed to the light of day, a bird will cry, only to be silenced by the pageantry of a parade of fools.

Oh, by and by, neither of the two Shakespeare “quotes” in the opening of this piece are actually by him. The first is from Robert Green’s “Frier Bacon and Frier Bongay”, and the second is mixed from many shows (the first line from “As You Like It”, the second from “King Richard the Third”, the third from “The Merry Wives of Windsor”, the fourth from “Measure for Measure”). Think you know Shakespeare?

antony and cleopatra, culture, money, orlando, othello, shakespeare

Fuck You, Orlando – GOAT Presents “Extremities”

The theater is dying; and most aren’t doing anything to stop it. Last night, as the lights moved across looming columns in the Margeson at the Shakes in tests for the upcoming “Othello”, and the majority of “theater” conversation in Orlando revolved around which company would be in charge of bringing the next sub-par Broadway spoon-feeding spectacle to the City Beautiful, I sat with 4 other people in a space that could fit 33 and watched real theater. The theater is dying.

Fuck you, Orlando. Fuck you for not caring, for being too absorbed by the easy and the anesthetizing; for choosing the simple, for avoiding anything challenging, anything of merit, or difficulty, or truth. When theater dies it will not be a quick death; we will watch the body atrophy, wither and waste, until there is only dust where a body once was. If you claim to like theater, go and see “Extremities”.

“Extremities” is an unbalanced, though staggeringly well-written, show. Ask an idiot and they’ll tell you it’s about role-reversal: a rapist, Raul (Stephen Lima), is captured in an assault on Marjorie (Jennifer Bonner) who proceeds to create a makeshift cage in her fireplace to house him. Her roommates Terry (Cara Fullum) and Patricia (Caitlin Bowden Carney) return home, and deliberate on what to do. The play is not about role-reversal: it’s about reaction. Having trapped her would be attacker Marjorie is faced with an ethical dilemma, herself trapped between her rage, her hatred for the man who would seek to harm her, her need to feel safe, and her hope to hang on to her humanity. The first act of “Extremities” is an exceptional character study; the second, wherein the roommates return, is something else, as both Terry and Patricia express sweeping societal views on rape. The moments of the play that hit home aren’t those wherein someone is delivering a pedantic monologue on the nature of justice, they are those moments when real characters interact with real reason. Those moments are glorious.

A kudos to GOAT not only for staging the play, but for the exceptional set as well. Each time I visit GOAT a new element has been added to the theater, and it’s good to see the venue growing steadily. As an aside, the previous two reviews I have written about shows at GOAT have not been particularly positive – still, on my arrival, Paul Castaneda greeted me warmly, and made time for me after the show to answer my questions. This is the artistic community I value; where theater isn’t made to bolster petty egos, and a dialog can exist between the audience and the production.

The stage for “Extremities”, a sturdy wooden home with a raised kitchen and fireplace, both helps and hinders the production. When Bonner is first faced with Lima’s intrusion, the vast area of the stage allows her to consider a number of possible escapes, and allows Lima to cut them off one by one, like a master creating a maze. For the remainder of the show, though, the sheer size of the stage takes away from the impact of the intimacy of the show; characters on occasion have to run to each other to deliver dialog, and there isn’t a feeling of immersion. Director Paul Castaneda wanted his cast to be able to go “where they felt comfortable”. In a play as violent as “Extremities”, that would presumably be backstage, but the actors instead gravitate away from each other, as if each charged with the same magnetic field, repelling one another. Fullum seems to live in the Kitchen at stage left, Carney behind the sofa at center stage, and Bonner on the floor wherever she happens to be. There is a distinct feel of moving for the sake of moving, a flaw that boils over into mannerism (with sizable stage sighs, eye rolling and literal hand wringing). The play is, by design, abrasive – the closer the audience, the more trapped they are into witnessing the horror unfold; having the audience so far away allows them to play silent, rather than active, witness.

Another key issue is the lighting: the audience is completely visible to the cast. One can then understand why Bonner, who clearly has moments as a character where she makes choices, seems to phone in the performance – the cycle is angry yelling, hit the fireplace with something, weep. Repeat. In the second act Bonner brandishes a hammer she uses both to injure Lima and to keep her roommates from leaving. Having decided to take control of the situation, one would assume the hammer would be in her hand as an extension of her body; blood meeting flesh meeting steel. Instead the hammer hangs limply at her side until needed. Her reactions seem pre-planned, and when executed (though efficiently) don’t ring true.

Fullum turns in a decent performance in a role that doesn’t have much meat to it. Though there are a number of moments when she seems more like a stroppy teenager than a person (complete with eye rolling and arm crossing) her sole moment of humanity, the telling of the story of her own rape, she hits with startling intimacy. The only qualm I have with the monologue is that after her initial outburst that she was raped, Fullum faces away from the audience before beginning her story. To have seen that transition of emotion would have, I think, only added to the power of her tale. By herself she is strong; reacting to what is happening around her she is not.

Carney is not good. When delivering dialog she takes three steps forward, bends at the knee, clenches both fists and says her line. She did this (I counted) 18 times. “Patricia” isn’t a role with much to do, so this can easily be forgiven.

The undoubted highlight of the show is Lima. Tasked with a role of an already unsavory character, Lima must also act much of the show blindfolded and confined to a fireplace. Even so, his leering voice and taunting cries echo large across the stage – proof that emotion moves better than actors. Those I attended the show with felt Lima’s belabored breathing while in the fireplace took came on, at times, too strong: I disagree, feeling it provided not only a constant, humming reminder of Lima’s pained presence, but an emotional melody for the action on set. Lima is certainly one of the best actors in Orlando; a rarefied strata wherein he both completely becomes a role but also serves his fellow actors with complete devotion. Lima’s performance makes the performances of those around him stronger – the power of his performance is the axis on which the show rotates.

Castaneda uses no music in scene changes; deferring to the humming of a wasp from the first scene (wherein Marjorie kills a wasp, then lights the body on fire in a candle). The constant, droning reminder of that first scene is a master stroke, as the scene changes don’t lose tension, nor does music overshadow what the stage presents.

“Extremities” is certainly a show with flaws. It is also a show with remarkable strengths. The run has two nights remaining, Friday the 25^th and Saturday the 26^th. See the show. Challenge yourself. If not, wherever you are those nights, be it downtown throwing back beers at BBQ or at home watching mindless dreck on the television, know that you are killing theater. Slowly, surely, and inexorably.

Fuck you, Orlando. We could be doing so much more. I say it because I love you: fuck you.

“Extremities” Facebook Event – http://www.facebook.com/events/513186775380186/

Attempting a Picasso but Producing a Pollock: The Triumphs and Failures of “The Painter”

By Samuel Butcher

[Note: After completing my review I learned that Floyd based the play on the theory that German born painter Walter Sickert was Jack the Ripper: the review has not been edited.]

Within ten minutes of the onset of “The Painter”, an original play written by and starring Roger Floyd under the direction of Paul Castaneda currently playing at G.O.A.T., three things become inarguably clear: Roger Floyd is a staggeringly talented actor, a playwright belabored by an inability to cut, and a researcher not concerned with fact, continuity or sense.

“The Painter” is the story of Walter Sickett (my own guess at the spelling) who is, in fact, Jack the Ripper – indeed he is Jack the Ripper in 1888, sometime between October 1^st and November 9^th. A painter and poet, Sickett is accompanied by the ghosts of Catherine Eddows (Leesa Castenda) and Mary Ann Nichols (Krystal Gillette). Speaking at times directly to the audience, Sickett recounts his first two murders while battling with his own lunacy and the incarnate specters of his crimes, while offering hints to his motivations and intents.

It is unclear what “The Painter” aims to be. It is not biography (the facts don’t seem to matter), it is not character study, it is not action. That is not to say there is no drama, but all that holds the show together is Floyd’s relentless belief in it; a passion that transcends him and fills the character – a character very much of his own creation.

In terms of story, “The Painter” is replete with distracting inaccuracies, antitheses and anachronisms. Even if one merely wishes to use the story of Jack the Ripper as a conceit for an examination of insanity, there is no useful purpose in changing the basic facts. Floyd renames the Ripper’s first victim (calling her “Anne” rather than Mary Ann; a confusing problem when the Ripper’s second victim was named Annie Chapman) and moves the fourth victim (Catherine Eddowes, killed a few hours after the murder of the Ripper’s third victim, Elizabeth Stride on September 30^th, 1888) to second place. Seeing as both women are used as ghosts on-stage, the shuffling of names serves only to confuse those familiar with the Ripper’s exploits; particularly as in the show Jack the Ripper has not yet resolved to kill again. The order of the killings, though, is but a small issue when compared to other halting errors in the show.

While a single out of place notion or incorrect detail can easily be batted away, a litany of them makes it nearly impossible to concentrate on the show. Walter Sickett rails for five minutes against what Sigmund Freud would think of him and how he would cut of Freud’s penis and feed it to him – even though Freud wouldn’t publish his first work until 1895, or develop the idea of the Freudian Slip (which Walter alludes to) until 1901. When his grandiose vision of himself as an artists compels him to list in order those names in history he seeks to overshadow, they come tumbling out of order and out of context: from Carravaggio we go a century earlier to Botticelli, then a complete stylistic change to Michaelangelo. Sickett quotes Charles Baudelaire, but does via “The Usual Suspects” (“the greatest trick the devil ever pulled…”) rather than the original (the finest trick of the devil is to persuade you that he does not exist”). When quoting “the ancients” the audience is treated to Ovid, Virgil and then William Butler Yates; the latter of whom didn’t start writing until 1890.

The mythos Sickett employs leaps from Greek Mythology, to Catholic Dogma, to Roman Epic poetry, to Calvinist doctrine. Equally bizarrely, though he speaks in an English accent, Sicket claims for himself a German grandmother, a sister of blue eyes and blond hair, and an Irish mother (a notion compounded by the use of a refrain from “A Brisk Young Sailor”; a famed Irish folk song). This confusion about the influences Sickett draws on makes it impossible to study him as a character, as he simply couldn’t be. Victorian England was not a place that celebrated Dionysian Greece or Roman Mythology ; only the rich had time for such luxuries and Sickett is clearly not of rich stock. Where he received his education is a mystery. Even more baffling, Sickett is Catholic – at a time when less than one-percent on Londoners were. Sickett isn’t (nor is his Priest), a particularly good Catholic; confusing revenge with vengeance. When he produces his rosary he begins with the “Our Father”, rather than the “Apostle’s Creed”.

One or two lapses in the historic time-line can be easily overlooked; when they come as fast and furious as they do in “The Painter”, though, it completely distracts from any semblance of story, character and ruins the suspension of disbelief.

Equally halting to the plays loose relationship with fact is it’s infatuation with adjectives: Floyd can’t seem to have a noun without qualifying it. The play sounds more like a poem by Jim Morrison than a person’s inner monologue: get high, list as many hackney clichés involving whatever allusion wanders through the transom of ones consciousness, and call it a day. “Like a beast with the boiling blood of Satan in its veins”, “we float on the shredded wings of intrepid angels”, “a rapist of angels who have lost their way”, “the poetry of Lucifer’s quill”, “I preach at the pulpit of austere despair”. These are terrible lines. Dreadful, silly, odious lines. All writers put these kind of words on paper – the good ones delete them. An old saying, but a true one, “anyone can write: the good can edit”. “The Painter” feels self-indulgent, as though Floyd couldn’t bring himself to take out a single word. It’s a first draft put to the stage: within the words there is, probably, a good fifteen minute scene, and lurking deeper within the text may well be a good show. Floyd is by no means being pretentious; where Floyd ends and the show beings, though, is the problem. Until Floyd can find the distance needed to make a show out of a personal writing exercise, few things can save it.

Thematically, “The Painter” not only fails to convey any deliberate message (in the last ten minutes some notion of rites, prophecies and the four horsemen of the apocalypse comes into play, but is never explained), the single visual element it does celebrate runs counter to the nature of the show. From the onset of the play, placed center stage under a red light, sits a self-portrait of Sickett. As his back-story unfolds, we learn that Sickett was born with abnormal genitalia and underwent several operations that left him with a severely disfigured penis. This painful personal trauma is the prime motivating factor in Sickett’s psychological development; the catalyst for the development of the character stems from self-hatred and self-loathing – there is no conceivable reason such a man would so prominently display himself. The climax of the show involves Sickett dousing his own portrait in blood; after having spoken at length about how his artistic masterpiece will be his murders. This choice is antithetical to the limited amount of information that has been established about the character; an inexplicable choice.

Had anyone other than Floyd played the role of Sickett, the show would have completely collapsed under its own absurdity. Floyd though is so thoroughly invested in the show, so completely inside the character, that the sheer magnetism of his performance makes the show not only watchable, but engaging. Fire burns behind his eyes; not self-styled, not affected, not false; Floyd gives a truly tremendous performance. Even when he falls into what would be considered the conventional traps of a “crazy” character (repeating oneself, spitting, etcetera) he does with a conviction and menace that makes it not only believable, it avoids the question entirely. From the moment Floyd enters the stage he possesses it: without question he owns the space, the character, the story and the audience. It’s a rare power, an impressive range and an inspiring display of the combination of technical talent and passion.

Ultimately, “The Painter” is proof that the theater is a living art; a powerful performance can make a mediocre script enjoyable. Intimate, engaging, dark and affecting, the production shows GOAT’s willingness to host shows that push boundaries, and Floyd’s abilities as one of the most talented actors in Orlando. Should “The Painter” be revised, I will gladly watch each incarnation; perhaps, like the Ripper himself, Floyd is only just getting started.

Healthy Discontent is the Prelude to Progress – An Open Letter to the Orlando Theater Community

Hello Orlando Theater Community,

My name is Samuel Butcher. Some of you know me, others may not. For those that do know me – howdy! For those that don’t – howdy, we should meet sometime!

I write this letter to the community at large after watching for months the perpetuation of certain attitudes and behaviors prevalent in our community: attitudes and behaviors I consider detrimental to the development of the arts, and culminate in a hushed outcry over a review I wrote. These opinions are mine and mine alone – that said, I welcome any dialog on the subject.

Recently, I reviewed a show put on by a local company. As I did not like the show, I did not give it a positive review. I did not (as I strive never to) either say what choice I personally think would have been better in a situation, or speak about the personal lives of any individuals involved. My review was of the show as a theatrical production. The auspice under which I write my blog is this, “In recognition that “reviews” are for a potential audience and “critique” is for the artistic community; to serve Orlando’s Theater Community by providing informed, engaging commentary on productions of all varieties; operating primarily under the auspice that true critique is more valuable than easy review, and that both, to be done well, need an engaged and open-minded writer”.

Here are the key issues I wish to address: an artistic community needs criticism against which to hone itself, if one has a problem with the actions of another they should confront them directly, and people should stop treating the arts as a grade-school gossip mill.

A clarification before I begin: this is not a letter about “community theater”, inasmuch as if the cost of a ticket is more than $10, you aren’t doing “community theater”. If you simply enjoy acting and do so as a hobby, wonderful. If it is something you are pursuing as a craft or a profession, though, you’re in an entirely different ballpark.

*An artistic community needs criticism against which to hone itself – The words “review” and “critique” are, regrettably, bandied about as though they are the same. In reality, they are vastly different: a “review” is simply a rundown of what someone saw; a “critique” is what one saw measured against a standard, and analyzed. For anyone to grow as an artist they need not only a venue to display their work, but also feedback as to how well they accomplished their work. To me, a good artist seeks out that criticism (if it comes from a source they respect) and works to further hone that aspect of their craft.

We live in an artistic community that can barely boast a critical component. We are incredibly fortunate to have Matt Palm (for my money, and many others, the best theatrical critic in the state). Beyond him, though, there is no one who writes with a combination of both authority and substance. That’s all criticism is: when someone who knows what they are talking about (from an analytical perspective) gives their opinion on the efficacy of a production. There are numerous people in Orlando who could provide invaluable insight to a community commentary: John DiDonna, Adam McCabe, Amy Cuccaro, Travis Eaton, Simon Needham, Andrew Evans, Stephen Pugh, Stephen Halpin – the list goes on and on (and those are just the people off the top of my head). Some of the above may not be able to as a matter of time. Some, though, can’t because of the way people in our community are used to being handled: with kid gloves. Simply getting on stage and reciting lines you’ve memorized does not entitle you to have someone gush over what you’ve done, let alone do so with fervency bordering on the pornographic. The bar has been set so low in this town (because people so readily applaud anything, lest they hurt someone else’s feelings) that, I’d wager, Adam McCabe could go on any stage in town, read from a phonebook and still be heralded as a genius. Adam McCabe is a solid actor – I would think, though, that he would be the first to say he is still learning (because if anyone thinks they’ve mastered a craft, they’re wrong). Each performance one gives should be, I think, followed by a thorough critical analysis of ones own efforts: take stock of what you did well, but poor importantly pay attention to where you fell short, and work doubly hard the next time not to make the same mistakes.

I am not saying, by any means, every criticism I levy is “right” or should be acted upon. That said, I do consider myself well educated in the realm of the arts, and work to have an actively critical mind. Let’s all dispense with the nonsense that “I don’t read reviews”. Of course you do. Everyone wants to know what other people think of their work: it’s why most of you are on a raised platform with lights shining on you in the first place. If a review affects you emotionally, though, I think more often than not it’s a case of the something hitting too close to the truth, and an innate reaction to be defensive. A review is not a personal attack; it’s someone’s take on what you did for two hours, and whether you did it well or not. If you think a reviewer doesn’t know what they are talking about, don’t read them (or challenge their review).

I can speak for myself: I recently directed a production of “Quills”. It was a wonderful experience with a fantastic cast, a great crew and wonderful venue. I will keep many fond memories from the experience. That said, as an artist, what I will hold most closely is this (from Matt Palm’s review of the show) “Unfortunately, Butcher has chosen to stage many of Carson’s climactic scenes upstage on the floor. This may suit his vision, as the Marquis sinks lower and lower, or indeed be literal — the Marquis’ limbs are removed — but it doesn’t suit the space well. With unraked seats, those in the back, especially in house left, have great difficulty keeping the action in view. And the pace of the second act, already overwritten by Wright, begins to lag. Instead of picking up steam as its climax approaches, the play begins to sink under its own weight. Strangely, the more grotesque the indignities heaped upon the Marquis, the less dramatic the result.”. Never again will I so readily ignore sight lines for the audience, and I will be much more attentive to pacing in relation to climax. I say so not because I assume Matt Palm to be implicitly correct, but because I respect his knowledge of the art form, and upon reflecting on his comments decided he was right. As such, I am improved as a Director. I did not burst into tears, did not start a blockade against him. In fact, I thanked him. Because without criticism we, as a community, have nothing to hone our craft against. More voices need to join the conversation of criticism rather than remain in the chorus of blind adulation: an art form is a blade and criticism a whet-stone; without the latter the former only dulls over time.

To that end, if there are any of you out there who go to shows, feel you know enough about theater to offer an opinion, and need a platform to do so, either message me on Facebook or e-mail me at butcher.samuel@gmail.com; I’d be happy to publish your work on this blog. The more voices the better.

* If one has a problem with the actions of another they should confront them directly; People should stop treating the arts as a grade-school gossip mill – This has nothing, really, to do with theater itself (although the actions to be discussed seem to proliferate in theatrical communities) but certainly affects the Orlando community: if you have a problem with someone, address it to them. I don’t care how any of you choose to act in your personal lives; and if you are happy lying to your friends and evading every issue, that’s your privilege. As a professional, though, it is patently embarrassing to watch someone praise someone or something with one side of their mouth and carp about it with the other. After my recent review I received a number of messages thanking me for the review and agreeing with it: all shared a similar caveat, don’t let people know, though. These people, actors by and large, had reason to want their anonymity preserved – this is a town of such fragile egos that were they to publicly agree with a professional criticism they run the danger of being ostracized. Amy Cuccaro and Marion Marsh, both of whom merely clicked “Like” under the link to my review, both received messages asking how they could “betray there [sic] community like that”. To be clear, these messages did not originate from anyone involved in the production; indeed the only comment on the review from someone involved in the production was an engaging, cogent post about the role of the critic in theater. The fact that these are then people not even involved in the show, then, makes it all the more absurd.

What sort of obnoxious bullshit is that? Where does it come from? Are people’s sense of self in this community so tragically based on what others think of them that the slightest perceived knock to their assumed public persona sends them into a tailspin? I offer this as a general rule for living: if you write something, put your name next to it. If you have a problem with someone, address it with them. To do otherwise is not only cowardly, it’s downright feeble.

A real community should be there to catch someone if they fall, certainly, but shouldn’t act as a crutch people can grasp onto to drag themselves through life. There is always more to learn, different ways to grow, new experiences to garner: if we aren’t pushing each other to excel, we are failing each other as fellow artists. If I ever offer a work of art and you dislike an element of it, I consider it your duty as a friend to tell me. Don’t tell me what I should have done, don’t tell me what you would have done, but tell me it didn’t work for you. I may not agree, but I will listen. And, more often than not, I will learn.

When I review a show or offer a critique, I do so because I respect the talent of those involved. If I was watching a bunch of people I didn’t care about screw something up, I wouldn’t spend my time writing a review of it (hence the lack of reviews I’ve written about, say, Hanson). When I review something I do under the maxim both Michel de Montaigne, “We need very strong ears to hear ourselves judged frankly, and because there are few who can endure frank criticism without being stung by it, those who venture to criticize us perform a remarkable act of friendship, for to undertake to by truth wound.” and Henry Miller, “Honest criticism means nothing: what one wants is unrestrained passion, fire for fire”. If you, as an artist, are bringing your fire to your craft I consider it the least I can do as a peer or a friend to bring fire right back to you.

If you go on stage purely for the adulation you receive, fine. Don’t, though, expect to ever evolve as an actor or a person; and don’t expect anyone to give a damn when you don’t. I’d rather someone respect my work than like me (though both would, obviously, be best). I’d rather someone want to work with me because they respect what I do, not because they like me as a person.

Each person, I think, needs to decide for themselves why they are in this community: as an artist first or a person first. If it’s the latter, then do what you like. If it’s the former, though, and you wish to use the stage to express yourself, to, as Aristotle said, “represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance” then you need to distinguish between your personal and professional life, and engage yourself in a community that pushes people to succeed.

Hooked: A Disaster Averted, Myriad Disasters Created

By Samuel Butcher

The story of “Hooked”’s difficult road to the stage has been well documented around Orlando, and I add my voice to those who commend Travis Eaton for not only surviving the turbulence that would have downed many other Producers and Directors, but doing so with a degree of class rare not only in our city but in our generation. That said, this is not a review of the effort to get “Hooked” on stage. This is a review of the result.

Full disclosure: as an art form, I rank the musical somewhere below miming, and just slightly above creating balloon animals. It’s the theatrical equivalent of watching the Harlem Globetrotters. My main umbrage with musicals is that humans have an innate connection to music (one only honed to certain emotions through nurture – if you don’t believe me ask anyone you know who can play an instrument to play you either a D flat chord or anything in the key of D minor); and far too many musicals rely on those innate emotional connections to create emotion itself, rather than going through the trouble of creating real characters in real situations struggling with real issues.

Speaking first directly to the script itself, the only good thing that can be said for “Hooked” is that the music used didn’t go for the standard, sweeping easy symphony to stir emotions. Instead it went for the kind of “rock” music one finds in MIDI files from mid-90′s Microsoft software. Imagine yourself back at your High School “Battle of the Bands”, and imagine that the band that came in fourth (that one that sounded a too much like they listened to too much Nine Inch Nails and had a 27 piece drum kit) – now imagine that band was given a day to write all the music for a show. “Hooked” would be the result. The backing tracks sounded as if they were composed and recorded using Sibelius. “Hooked” is horrendously written: if, given an infinite amount of time, an infinite number of monkeys would eventually write the entire works of Shakespeare, “Hooked” was penned by four monkeys in 20 minutes – and none of those monkeys gave a damn about character, plot or plausibility.
The story of “Hooked” (and I use the word loosely) revolves around “Ben” (though without a program I’d have no idea of that, as I don’t recall his name being used) who begins and ends the first act by breaking the fourth wall and directly talking to the audience in the middle of a coked-out flat-line, then spends the second act rudely ignoring the audience clearly visible through the massive hole in the fourth wall he made at the start of the show. Accompanying Ben are his wife Emma, a guy in a bowler hat who owns a nightclub, and some strippers. “Hooked” isn’t so much of a story as it is one ninety second dialog exchange leading into a bad song ad nauseum. A prime example is a scene wherein Emma goes from stunned that her cheating husband’s foreigner stripper arrives at her apartment with a baby, to yelling at said foreigner, to taking the baby, to loving the baby – all in about 80 seconds. The show would only make sense if it was actually 9 hours long, and I’d been having seizures throughout.

There’s no drama, no character development, no growth, no intrigue: one could play the songs for the soundtrack on shuffle and I doubt anyone could tell a difference. Instead of crafting a story, the writers of “Hooked” opted instead to plop down four stereotypes on paper, then throw hackneyed “twist” after hackneyed “twist” at them; ranging from the painfully predictable (“oh, fuck, I got the girl I was having an affair with pregnant”) to the painfully absurd (“oh, fuck, that guy we just stabbed once with a switchblade in the back has died instantly, even though the switchblade was only like 3 inches long, and that makes no fucking sense unless he had some congenital birth-defect which placed his cerebral cortex just above his liver”). Luckily as “Hooked” takes no time to set up or develop it’s characters, you simply don’t care what is happening to them. Rather than subtly tackling issues, “Hooked” flashes neon signs at them, with all the subtlety of a drag show.

A sad truth is that a bad show (and “Hooked” is way, way beyond bad) makes any mistakes all the more glaring. See a production of, say, “Phantom of the Opera” and, even if there are some minor issues with the actors or the staging you’re happy to keep your disbelieve suspended, as the pace and warmth of the show draws you in. In a show as bad as Hooked, when I spent most of my time looking for something to provoke a reaction lest I jab a pen in my eye, all you see are the flaws of the production.

All the cast have reasonably strong voices (with the exception of Erin Brenna and Desiree Perez; both of whom have truly exceptional voices), but as the songs are, to be blunt, shit it could be Elaine Page singing and it would still be barely tolerable. As there’s no emotion to grab onto in the songs, the actors fall back to Musical Theater 101 – keeping their eyes as wide as possible, and gripping their fists with all the fervency they can muster. When not caught up in their own intensity, the cast mostly paces from place to place (across a stage beyond comprehension). All the actors are also miced; which aside from creating an annoying buzz in between sections (this is the second show I’ve seen at the new GOAT with distracting buzzing; figure out your system) makes them have to take back the strength of their vocals. The background tracks are only coming through two 300 watt speakers – drop the mics and let the actors belt; at least it gives them some room to stretch their pipes.

Speaking of sound, there were three separate instances where tracks bled into one another – either a new song starting at the end of the finishing one, or missed fades. For any theater charging $18 a ticket, this is completely unacceptable. Running a soundboard is only hard to set up; the actual execution should be easy. All it takes is 10 minutes of preparation; rather than using a CD player, bring in a laptop with Mutliplay (it’s free and easy to use – the Windows version of CueBase) and your cues pre-programmed. Then just press the button when you need to. Hearing the first two bars of a song and then having it cut off is amateur hour.

Set in England, all the actors also speak in accents. The problem, though, is that the accents come and go seemingly at will (though are constantly not present during the songs); and even when the accents come they are bad at best. They’re also, by and large, not discernibly English accents – at least not any particular part of England. By far the worst accent, though, is Erin Brenna’s, who sounds like someone doing a purposefully bad impression of Yakov Smirnoff – seeing as her character is from Romania (a people with a romance language) and not the Ukraine at the fall of the Soviet Block, it comes off as simply ludicrous.

It’s not only the accents that left me confused as to where, exactly, the show was supposed to be set. In the opening Ben is seen cutting up lines of cocaine…using a Bank of America debit card (an aside to Mr. DelMico’s parents; be assured, your son does not appear to have ever done cocaine). When one of the strippers hands over her earnings to the club owner, she does so in dollar bills.

The most annoying, and persistent, mistakes of the cast are talking on the phone and background acting. Director Travis Eaton chooses to keep the club owner and Emma on stage for the majority of the show (on a raised platform with a rear wall split in two colors), and gives each a land-line telephone. While action is happening on the floor, there are the club-owner and Emma, earnestly talking on the phone. If you’ve made a choice that doesn’t give anything to the production, then it takes away from it. When provided with cell phones, the actors tend to give their lines, wait for one second, then give their next – as though the person on the other end speaks at 3,900 words a minute. The cast also takes on the annoying habit of, after a phone call, mournfully looking at their phones. Never in my life have I seen anyone, for any reason, look with emotion at a phone (and I had a friend whose Android killed his father).

“Hooked” is an abysmal show; executed with passion and dedication. Truth, though, is truth: no amount of passion, dedication, skill or vision can turn shit into gold. It can’t even turn shit into “passable”. It was an impressive feet of perseverance the show even made it to the stage – in a way it’s sad so much effort was wasted on such a painfully bad show. In another way, though, it’s almost sweet: the show, after all, must go on.

Addendum: After an interesting discourse on a social networking site, I want to include the following observation from Ms. Erin Brenna Manin, as I think it is both salient and an interesting take: “Our theatre and arts community is greatly if not primarily supported by those affiliated with our theatre and arts community. What “Hooked” as a production has been able to accomplish is no small feat either: the ability to reach out to different demographics and give persons who may not typically attend theatre, the opportunity to experience a theatrical production that utilizes relevant modern day character archetypes, a straight to the point storyline (all-be-it an abridged one), and solid rock musical numbers, in a reasonable run-time and welcoming in-formal setting (I like to think of it as an everyday person’s musical). We as a community should want to expand our collective audiences.”

No More Kidding Around: GOAT Finds a Home

By Samuel Butcher

Long wanderers through the oft-murky swamps of the Orlando theater community, GOAT (The Greater Orlando Actors Theater) finally has a space to call their own: one they gave a soft opening for with “Rock – A Musical Revue”. This review has two parts; a look at the show, and a look at the hosts.

“Rock – A Musical Revue” was passable at it’s worst moments, fairly engaging at it’s best. The song selection felt like the mix-CD of a High School Senior thespian (the first act had three songs from “Rent”, three from “Spring Awakening” and one from “Spider-man”; music selection in the second act was decidedly more varied, but still stuck to the established: “Little Shop of Horrors”, “Jesus Christ, Superstar”, “Tommy”); all big numbers, all passionate pleas, all high-level, high-intensity numbers. This left the show with nowhere to go in terms of progression: it was one big piece to another, a “Now That’s What I Call Music” for musical theater. All of the performers possess incredible pipes (though Anna Marie Kraeger seemed to be suffering some sort of cold, resulting in a markedly nasal performance; and newcomer Jamaal Solomon, though gifted with a superb voice, seemed to always be a half step below his comfort zone): picking only “epic” songs, though, left the show with a substantial amount of “white diva hand action”, wherein one extends their hand, palm down, then moves it up and down in connection to the tremor of their voice. Without any real blocking the actors spent most of their numbers running through a “do not do” list of musical theater: heels perpetually off the ground, fists forever clenched in anguish, arms thrown wide to embrace the world. Particularly guilty was Jolie Hart, whose tremendous voice was outshone only by her tremendously huge movements. As a revue, though, one isn’t really in character, and one has to bring the audience to the emotional ambiance of the song right off the bat – given those factors all the performers did well.

Ironically Adam McCabe, the most bombastic off stage, was the most restrained on, and did an exceptional job of allowing his voice, inflection and face tell the story of the song, rather than what bordered on interpretive dance. Without a doubt, though, the musical highlight of the show is the Musical Direction, done by Katrina Johnson. For a big number to really work, one has to have perfect harmonies – they are the canvas on which the song is painted. It was clear each song had been given careful attention, and the backing vocals never faltered. This critic has not seen any show in Orlando use harmony to such great effect, and would advise any producer or director planning a musical to consult Ms. Johnson.

The most enjoyable aspect of the show was the creative manner in which GOAT’s future was revealed; as the cast discovered “clues” hidden around the space (accompanied by triumphant NES midis). These clues were rhyming stanzas of four lines that would befuddle the cast, until Kevin Sigman would “interpret the clues”. Those in attendance know GOAT will play host to “Hooked” (the US premier, being produced by the staggeringly talented Travis Eaton), “Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson” (for which Adam McCabe will be the driving force – appropriate as the fantastic musical could well have been excised from his torso in some sort of errant medical procedure) and a new play about Jack the Ripper (whose writer and performer thrilled the audience with a preview; it certainly seems like a show with the potential for greatness). The rest of the show was held together mostly by Adam McCabe’s frenetic pace and asides, and plenty of gentle ribbing from the cast. A few minor technical errors occurred (as always tend to with wireless microphones), but nothing that detracted from the enjoyable mood struck by the show.

Had “ Rock – A Musical Revue” been a standalone show I would have left decently entertained, impressed by the vocal talent but thinking the whole thing could use a good, strong polish. “Rock”, though, wasn’t a standalone show, nor was it meant to be. It was a soft opening for GOAT’s new space; to quote Emerson “The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it”. By that measure it’s obvious GOAT now owns a palace.

The space itself is deceptively large: as soon as I entered I was envisioning the countless ways one could stage a show – proscenium, ¾ thrust, the round, blackbox and more. Rather than limiting themselves to one set design, GOAT have wisely acquired a space they can change to suit their shows. A truth often forgotten in Orlando is that the space informs the show: one cannot take the staging of a production and move it from one venue to another and expect it to be the same. The proverbial boards become part of the story – by not locking themselves into a straight-jacket GOAT can bend those boards perfectly to every endeavor.

GOAT’s history is one of choosing interesting pieces to produce, and allowing new and emerging talent to work both on and off the stage. These choices, and the generous, giving nature of Paul Castenada and his new bride, Leesa (GOAT’s owners and oeprators) have earned GOAT a well-deserved loyal following. It will be interesting to see how said following enjoys the new space, and how Mr. Castenada, long a proponent of the power of community, chooses to use his space. I have high hopes both the work GOAT will stage themselves, and for how they will exist in the Orlando theater community.

So Vast is Art – “Bouncers”

By Samuel Butcher

“Bouncers”, an updated, continentally transplanted version of the 1978 play by John Godber, is not only the best play the author has seen at Fringe, not only the best show the author has seen this year, but is the best single work of art the author has seen in a good long while. The show is so good the author will abandon the editorial third person: theater so engaging in its dynamism, so potent in its moments of seriousness and so hysterical in its moments of comedy, has to be spoken about by the person who saw it: I walked out of Yellow Venue body aflame, ignited by the passion and energy of the show, punch-drunk from the staggering hilarity and reeling from the questions the show had posed me. “Bouncers” is so good I offer this personal challenge: there are two shows left, Friday at 11:15 and Saturday at 4:20 – if you see the show and do not like it the author will refund your money. Show me your ticket stub, look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t like it, and I’ll but nine bucks from my pocket into your hand. I don’t believe it to be possible that I will lose a dime.

Originally written in 1984 (though updated in the mid ’90s), “Bouncers” is the interconnecting story of four men and four women all bound for the same club on the same night, juxtaposed with the four titular bouncers who guard the entrance to the venue. These 16 characters are played by four actors, each given one role in each quartet. Set in England’s industrial north Director Simon Needham rewrote vast swaths of the script to move the setting from an unnamed city in England’s hell to Orlando. John Godber is massive in England; indeed each year only plays by William Shakespeare and Alan Ayckbourn see more runs across the pond. The most apt parallel to an American playwright may be Neil Simon – comedic, slightly more light than heavy, good but rarely great. Needham’s accomplishment in reworking the script is akin to someone taking “The Odd Couple” and having it run with the dramatic power of “Proof” and the comedic majesty of “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead”.

Needham, though, overshadows his own work on the script with his direction of the play. “Bouncers” starts at breakneck speed and doesn’t let up – the wings are barely used, the blocking is precise and always to a purpose, the lighting minimal but staggering, the actors magnificent. There is not a single moment in the play that left me wondering about the purpose of a choice – from the onset I was not simply drawn in I was pulled by the collar and not released until the last line. The show strikes the magic, rare balance where the paths of a tight, paced production meet an inspired work of genius.

The cast of “Bouncers”, tasked with the full spectrum of theatrical expression, not only live up to the challenge, they knock it out of the park and set a new standard for potency. A. Ali Floris, Luis Poggi, Robert Walker-Branchard and Rowan Bousaid are clearly committed to the show, but also equally clearly committed to each moment of each role – from the physical comedy, to the aside jokes, to the brutally powerful monologues. Each gives the best performance of Fringe, but there is not a hint of one-up-manship to be found. The cast are focused on serving the show; and they serve well.

I could rave on and on, give you ten-thousand reasons to see this show, explain in intricate detail why the show succeeds with such grandeur. I consider myself a talented writer, but I know I wouldn’t be able to come close to doing the show justice. If anyone out there is sitting on a few grand and wants to make a profit, take this show on a tour of Florida college campuses: if you don’t triple your investment you should get out of the money making business. For everyone else, my offer stands and is absolutely true: go to show and, if you don’t like it, I’ll refund you out of my pocket.

Addendum: A longer, detailed analysis of the performance as a critical evaluation of effective theater awaits publication, but will be held until after Fringe closes. I can’t talk about the show without spoiling it – and to take away the magic of this show would be a crime.

The Echo of Shylock Laughing in Room 101 – “Fosgate: Ferret Loan Officer”

By Samuel Butcher

Disclaimer: As a subject of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, a citizen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and the direct male descendant of the first five English kinds of the Plantagenet line, the author will implicitly enjoy any show that offer discounts to “The British” – that said, as a true Englishman, the author also finds it distasteful that the Welsh, Scottish and Northern Irish receive the same discount as the author, and hopes said vitriol will offer balance to the review.

There was a time when “family friendly” was a polite acronym for “shit”. Beginning with the Disney animated renaissance in the late ’80s, though, and expanded by the genius work of Pixar, “family friendly” has now found a balance between entertainment for children and adults alike – a dynamic duality where two age groups see the same joke and take it two different, equally funny, ways. Striking the proper balance is hard enough to do on film, to be clever without being snide: to do so on the stage is an even more daunting challenge. The roaring success with which “Fosgate: Ferret Loan Officer” delivers delight to an audience of any age range may well become the standard by which Orlando “family friendly” fare is measured. The author can’t think of a better barometer.

Told in a blistering 50 minutes as a Broadway style musical, “Fosgate” tells the story of the titular character, a Ferret and loan officer in Blackpool, and his interactions with a horse, a pig, a dog, a woman, a badger and a sheep. The show draws directly from both “Animal Farm” and “The Merchant of Venice” for its conceit, but remains a story all its own. The cast exudes energy, skill and dedication; minimal costuming (mostly ears and tails) leave room for wonderful moments of physicality wherein the actors anthropomorphize themselves. The show would succeed even as a song-cycle, all written by Ned Wilkinson, the tunes are crisp, the lyrical play wonderful and the energy a treat. Unlike too many musicals wherein the dialog simply serves as a bridge to the next song, Wilkinson takes full advantage of his time and includes killer jokes for the audience.

Perhaps the best element of “Fosgate”, though, is Wilkinson’s keen understanding of “the lines”: the line between self-reference and self-indulgence, between too little and too much, between dismissing a fact and relying on one. The show includes meta jokes, but never at the expense of the show for an easy laugh (an ongoing gag includes the “beeping” out whenever a character says “Farm”, under the auspice that “Animal Farm” is copyrighted). Likewise, Wilkinson could have a script full of animal behavior jokes – a ten minute scene of a dog responding to trick commands would suffice. Instead, Wilkinson uses the opportunity sparingly, giving each inadvertent “sit” an extra laugh. The show also acknowledges its own lack of size by playing to its smallness – the delightful “Wheels of Progress” sees the whole cast construct a wagon (with an umbrella as wheels and Wilkinson in the back of the line playing a tuba); other songs also incorporate dance, but only to heighten the quasi-absurdity.

The cast is as strong as the material. From Joshua S. Roth’s adorable puppy to Laura Hodos’s officious, justice-seeking lead, each actor brings a unique and interesting take on their characters. Matt Horohoe and Holland Hayes stand out particularly as a no-nonsense pig and stuttering horse respectively, but it is undoubtedly Sarah Lee Hobbs as Violet the sheep who most charms the audience. Hobbs comedic timing is impeccable, her character, a somewhat naïve, busty sheep secretary, affords plenty of humor, and Hobbs’ effortless rings every last laugh out each movement, each line, each song. Hobbs also wins the biggest laugh of the show (and for the author, of the festival thus far) when upon being queried about her ability to read the fine-print in a contract beautifully deadpans “Hath a ewe not eyes?” Jason Wood in the lead role of Fosgate is, likely, the weakest of the cast – but in the same manner that George Cohen was the weakest member of the 1966 English World Cup Winning team; still bloody brilliant, but surrounded by Gordon Banks, Nobby Stiles, Bobby Charlton, Alan Ball and so on.

Fosgate is limited by its venue – the dynamic nature of the songs beg for the cast to belt to them, but the Brown Venue has an odd acoustic setting: mic-ing the actors would be too much, not having them mic-ed is slightly too little. A different venue and those problems vanish, even as they are the show is too good to be brought down by them.

A brilliant show, a wonderful cast, a delightful time – miss “Fosgate: Ferret Loan Officer” and you’ll kick yourself. Or the author might.

Robots, Candy, Junkyard – “Dog Powered Robot and the Subsequent Adventure”

By Holly Frost

There has been a lot of hype during the Orlando International Fringe Festival surrounding Dog Powered Robot, a bombastic production that dominated the festival last year, winning the Daily City’s “Patron’s Pick (Green Venue)”, “Best Tech” and Orlando Weekly’s “Best Fringe Show in Orlando”. This year, the show moved to one of the largest spaces of the festival- the Orange Venue- and promised to fill it with shenanigans, robots, frogs, talking dumpsters, candy, explosions, and lest we forget- a cardboard robot with a dog serving as its power source.

The technological aspects of Dog Powered Robot are impressive. Evan Miga, the creator of Dog Powered Robot, dreamt big when he decided to undertake the creation of not just one cardboard robot, but a whole arsenal- all one-of-a-kind and most with functioning electronic displays that can still be operated easily by any actor. The engineering involved beyond the obvious basic wiring and hot glue gun is a mystery, but it seemed no bolt was missed, and no expense spared- these robots looked great and their functionality was incredible. With an abundance of lights, neon strips, endless music cues, projection monitors, lasers, a ‘working’ transmitting device and too much more to name, the technical crew executed their duties flawlessly.

Dog Powered Robot has a solid cast, restricted only by their cumbersome costumes. Lollibot (Serafina Schiano), a minor character in last year’s show, was the center of delight, and even if her high-pitched voice was a little much at times, her comedic timing and clamping claw charmed. Roustabout (Stephen Lima) and Boxcar (Chris Prueitt), the comedic evil henchmen duo, gained some serious laughs. The ensemble was a group of Ninja Noids: gibberish-spouting, over-sized versions of the minions from “Despicable Me.” The show was held together by them- they acted as puppeteers, minions, robot assistants and runners, all while maintaining character and distributing candy. Honorable mention: Fisher, the six year-old Pomeranian that powers Dog Powered Robot- he was adorable and kept cool the entire time his giant cardboard cocoon was fighting crime.

With all of the talent involved, however, the performance couldn’t support the lack of substance the actors were given. The plot was rushed, uncalculated and messily translated by the actors. Many of the robots cut each other off, paused for the wrong punch lines or weren’t interesting enough to hold attention. Speech went way too quick at times, distorting their microphones, rendering them indecipherable. The time frame allotted to the production couldn’t grant the physical action that occurred: it was everything, everywhere, all of the time. The spectacle was the only solid foundation of the production. Only on an individual basis were the characters enjoyable; together it was all too scatter-brained with no dynamic lines or dialogue to support it. There is a well-written script hidden in Cardboard City somewhere, but the G-rating hinders the jokes, the visuals hinder the story, and the sheer magnitude hinders the ability to enjoy fifty minutes of BOOM WAP ZAM!

The production’s focus of demonstration over story disables the purpose. A happy medium is what this show fails to accomplish: Dog Powered Robot is too much, too quick, with too little to show for it in the end. With the potential it possesses, the show should lose its overt self-indulgence, commit to its jokes and breathe between ideas. Once the flow is improved and the storytellers find their objectives, Dog Powered Robot could be a monumental work of theatre; for now it’s a monumental work of “wouldn’t this look cool?”

Let’s Talk About Shakes, Baby – The Orlando Shakespeare Center

Two Houses, but How Alike in Dignity – The Orlando Shakespeare Theater’s “Othello”, Lake Howell High School’s “Antony and Cleopatra” and the Disservice of Blind Reverence to the Bard

Fuck You, Orlando – GOAT Presents “Extremities”

Attempting a Picasso but Producing a Pollock: The Triumphs and Failures of “The Painter”

Healthy Discontent is the Prelude to Progress – An Open Letter to the Orlando Theater Community

Hooked: A Disaster Averted, Myriad Disasters Created

No More Kidding Around: GOAT Finds a Home

So Vast is Art – “Bouncers”

The Echo of Shylock Laughing in Room 101 – “Fosgate: Ferret Loan Officer”

Robots, Candy, Junkyard – “Dog Powered Robot and the Subsequent Adventure”

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