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Strange at Fringe, part the trois

The reviews continue. I warn you these accounts are not for the faint of heart.

– – –


A man said to me after this performance, ‘Well, it’s not every day you see a woman turn into a horrific spider, or watch people’s faces fall off, all accompanied by an atonal nightmarish soundtrack.’ To which I replied ‘Well, maybe not in YOUR every day’.

Everyone around me seemed to be shocked and amazed by this production, as if they’d never seen a man grow an extra leg and then have it ripped off by ululating dancing girls. Personally, I wanted to nudge the person next to me and say ‘Yawn, am I right?’ but he was covering his eyes and muttering words of protective incantation.

The plot: a strapping young man is tormented by women in his dreams, so he has to run in place while they dance around him, strip him naked, generally abuse him, and present him with horrifying image after horrifying image. Or basically what I would commonly refer to as ‘Tuesdays’.

Watching a ghostly pale woman grow spider fingers, tear her chest open, and pull strings of silky web from her twisted body did remind me I need to check in on my great aunt in the near future.

– – –


This is a play presented by The Disreputables about a truly despicable boy with an impressive head of hair (Yoni Gray) who masturbates to thoughts of dinosaurs, I think. That’s what I got from it anyway, but your guess is probably slightly less good than mine.

At the beginning of the play this depraved boy started directly talking to me about Jewish mysticism. I was tempted to say ‘I have no interest in being your friend’, but before I could interject two of the girls in the play were flapping their harpy wings and almost accidentally kissing each other.

The healthy-flowing-locks boy is impotent and has to think about ancient Jewish texts and the cretaceous period to maintain any sexual vigor. This is of course understandable, personally I find the rise of the Holy Roman Empire and the Tibetan Book of the Dead to be particularly bracing.

The two girls Kaballah (Kathleen Alvania) and Elise (Tiffany Garfinkle) are the best of friends because they both wear glasses. They pretend to be birds of prey together and this helps them deal with the terrible difficulty of still being in high school in their 20’s.

But readers, I must confess, my thorough distaste for this production arises from Lee Mikeska Gardner (director) and her troupe of miscreants making drops of salty emotion-brew form in the corners of my eyes. Kaballah and Elise are using their bizarre games of ‘I’m a Kestrel’ to struggle through the most unimaginable pain, and while thankfully on this particular note I am free from their suffering, I couldn’t help but feel for their anguish. And for that Disreputables I will never forgive you. You made me FEEL, you artsy yogurt hounds!

– – –


Graham Pilato who apparently directed this exercise in brain torture is the kind of human being I want to wrap up in a blanket of cat hair and roll down a bowling alley. He and his fellow cloud cult members have devised an evening of insanity that I can only describe as ‘Pppppfffqqqq’.

There’s no play, no actors, no audience, because they made us, “the audience”, into actors or no actors as the case may be, all accompanied by the maddening strums of a ukelele played by an infuriatingly adorable curly-haired demon! They pointed at me. Tried to make me sing. Tried to make me hug people. HUG PEOPLE? Do you have any idea who I am? If I were to hug someone I would have to shave off all my skin, burn it, and then eat myself.

A group of people force you to question every life decision you’ve ever had by toying with everything you’ve ever understood about anything. When a girl picked up a book and exclaimed for the ninth time ‘What is this?’ and her fellow torturers replied “I think it’s a [something other than a book]”, if not for the terror in my soul I would have leaped to my feet and screamed “No, you satanic harridan, it’s a book, A BOOK, why can’t you see it’s a book? And why are all these people sitting here delighted to watch you NOT know.” But then I would likely have collapsed into a dribbling pile of confusion and waste.

You don’t know who is part of the performance, who isn’t, everyone around me became suspects in this artistic crime. Even the nice gentleman sitting next to me started to sing at one point, and I glared at him with such hatred, while he smiled through refrains of ‘Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer’.

You have been warned. Graham Pilato is trying to make you into a puddle, a puddle of sadness rained from his cloudist borealis monsoon palace! Don’t evaporate my children, stay cold!

– – –

Tomorrow there will be further castigation of this artistic orgy known as Capital Fringe!


About xanderstrange

orphan and arts critic

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