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Strange at Fringe, part the IV

The agonizing journey continues.

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I arrived at Woolly Mammoth Theatre being promised I would see the latest offering from Dog and Pony DC. Instead I accidentally wandered into a town hall meeting of the tiny American hamlet, Beertown, or as I prefer to call it: haven for chainsaw wielding serial killers. The natives of this creepy alcoholic libation commune attempted to interact with me, all smiles and friendly neighborhood sadism! I ignored them and simply drank the lemonade they’d offered me . . . horror of horrors, LEMONADE? From a rag tag band of nostalgia driven psychopaths? Strange, you fool!

The proceedings of the meeting were underway before I had time to scream “I will not join your spring harvest cult and you will not feed me bumblebees!” Apparently every 4000 years the residents of Beertown dig up the remains of their relatives and decide who gets to keep their grave and who gets to be put in a metal box and sent into space. I was able to spy on these macabre proceedings, and readers, what I have to report is horrifying! I kept my fingers crossed that I’d still get a chance to see that dog and cute pony.

We learned about the history of the town. To sum up, they are drunks. And they all secretly hate each other.

Three of the townspeople presented objects they’d stolen as offerings to the alcohol deities. They were also attempting to prevent being ritually sacrificed on the “time capsule” altar! One man presented a piece of wood (definitely going to be sacrificed, I thought), one young lady, the mayor’s daughter, presented a cardboard sign (debatable sacrificial fodder), and one woman presented a rock (I would say destined for the next world, but I was scared of her gleeful psychotic delight and she can probably hear me). Then, we the townspeople voted on who would be sacrificed to the beer gods.  All the people around me were suggesting ideas on why that guy deserved to have his heart eaten, and why she deserved to have her eyeballs removed. There was discussion of jars of smoke (sorcery), movie projectors (religious propaganda), and family bibles (obviously spell tomes).

I raised my hand not having listened to the conversation and said “Beertown, I want you to know, I don’t really live here, so first of all, take that! But I’ve seen your evil ways, I know your secrets, and frankly you sicken me! You will never get my liver!” and ran from the room.

I heard someone yelling the incantation: “Sir, it’s not real, it’s just a pla . . . ” but I was out the door before he could lure me with his saccharine smile of death. Warning: if you ever find yourself in Beertown, keep driving, lest you end up on the end of a pitchfork!

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Full disclosure: Joshua Morgan and Brian Sutow recently tried to make me end my life with their production of ‘Suicide, Inc.’ this has impacted the objectivity of my review, the bastards.

Joshua Morgan (critter) and Brian Sutow (director) are bastards.

This is a show about super heroes being pathetic. And while I could relate and appreciate those with immense power actually being utter losers (my father was immensely powerful, but couldn’t put on clothes without breaking bones or setting the house on fire) I was troubled by the suggestion that anyone would sing their thoughts.

A new “art” form has been invented here, known as a “musical”. In it people move around like a normal play, but when they feel compelled to heights of emotional bursting they sing, and dance, and pretend this is typical behavior. If one of you started singing your thoughts to me, I would kick you the shins and say “behave yourself, goblin child”. I questioned why no one did this here. I suggested several times that they do so, but they couldn’t hear me over the piano rock stylings echoing from the wings magically coinciding with their emotional journeys and flippant dance moves.

The plot: Supernova is a lowlife drug fiend who needs to feed his turtle, but also has the previously mentioned singing problem and meets a group of superheroes who also have this bizarre condition (among others). Everyone in the audience around me seemed to be delighted, clapping in unison with the music, smiling like amphetamine stuffed banshees, and laughing at the misadventures of these hapless cads. I tried to clap so as not to feel left out, but having never done this before, I kept missing my own hands.

In the end I was left with one true sadness: the actress playing The Scarlet Letter was dressed in a tight leather-like skirt, low-cut bustier, and boots, essentially looking like a high-end prostitute, and while I understand the limited budgets of fringe shows it was sad that they couldn’t afford a costume.

– – –


Finally a show that proves that all British women are completely insane.

This is a play set in the Goethe Institut, where two women with monosyllabic names ramble to each other about being completely off the wall bananas. We know they’re crazy, Goethe knows they’re crazy, they’re the only ones in the dark. And Goethe has let us be voyeurs to their plummy madness.

Goethe never appears on stage unfortunately, but you feel his efficient German eye dictating the proceedings. Perhaps he was running the light board. There was something extremely precise and orderly about the technical aspects of the proceedings, like a well placed umlaut guiding us by our skeletal hands to elongated vowels.

If I hadn’t been made aware of the women’s “prisoner status” by their matching costumes I would have believed I was simply witness to a quotidian conversation of the English female. Completely incomprehensible, centered on Doris Day and witchcraft, and filled with nonsensical exclamations “bloody this, bloody that”, “oh jolly rot rot jiggery pokery”, “nob nob bugger, queen vic, give me a digestive guvnah”, etc.

A woman next to me said “oh, their madness and loneliness is so moving”. I replied “Moving? Are you British? Didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know. English women are mad as bicycles”. She tiresomely responded “That seems culturally insensitive and offensive”. To which I responded, “Yes madame, and you are ugly, but in the morning I shall be sober”. Score one for Xander Strange.

If you are about to marry a limey slag this is the show for you, a warning if you will, of what’s to come. Utter nincompoopy gibberish all with an air of repressed politeness.

As the British would say “Blimey mate, apples and pears, jaffa cakey copper bollocksy give us a pint”.

– – –

More Capital Fringe Festival 2012 reviews to come in the next moons, once I have recovered my sense of sight and smell from these previous offerings.


About xanderstrange

orphan and arts critic

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