"It's hotter than Satan's asshole out here!" No, that wasn't an irate spectator commenting on Las Vegas Little Theatre's air conditioning, but rather one of the many mirth-inducing lines in Erica Griffin's
Casa de Nada, which graces the 2011 Fringe Festival with some of the bawdiest dialogue in memory.
Comedy and angst seesawed for the upper hand, with Marco Ramirez's
I Am Not Batman, a monodrama for actor and street drummer, smack in the middle. Equally funny and moving,
Batman amusingly juxtaposes Adam Flores' manic, acrobatic performance with Mike Thatcher's deadpan presence, although the latter's percussion is sometimes so loud Flores resorts to ear-fatiguing yelling.
There was more substance, humanity and profundity in
Batman's slender 20 minutes than in all 80 of William Waldrop and Robert Williamson's insufferable
Pandemic!, a musical with Broadway aspirations. ("Delusions" would be more accurate.) It's the most toxic spore yet of the drive-in meta-musical, a campy subgenre that trivializes everything, including death. Music and lyrics are exceptionally forgettable and Jeff Tidwell gives them the staging they deserve, dominated by an acting style best termed "swishbuckling," regurgitating every 20th-century Hollywood gay stereotype.
Consolations include Courtney Combs' diverse choreography, Tony Blosser's rock-steady professionalism (wasted in a non-singing role), Molly Rosenberger's dumb-blonde act and the magnificent voice of Melissa Ritz in three small parts. Lead roles fare less well between the adenoidal bray and fluttery soprano, respectively, of lovers Derek Keeling and Shannon Winkel, or the metallic tone and transatlantic wobble of Kara von Aschwege's Teutonic doctor.
Even more self-congratulatory (if possible) was Atlas Theatre's
The Blue Hour, which pastes together David Mamet excerpts in an effort to say Something Important about contemporary America. The sluggish ultra-solemnity of Judith Kalaora's direction, the pretension of the concept and a dramatic arc so abstract you can take it to mean anything you like may cause
The Blue Hour to be mistaken for high art -- as will its simulated fellatio.
Amidst mostly anemic thesping, Sean Cancillieri's idiosyncrasy and folding-chair physique command attention, as do his ability to immediately switch from a chatty, intrusive panhandler to a terrifying rapist. Andrew Eddins, in a breakout performance, is a quintessential Mamet actor, the rhythms and inflections in his blood. But as narrator Rick Ginn declaims, "My God, we have done what we should not have."
No less dystopian -- but considerably more involving -- is Daniel Hamilton's
Love Stories During the Armageddon of a Citrus Fruit. A surrealistic journey to the center of a planet-sized orange, it's also a Faustian conflict between two nameless men, played by twins Jason and Jeremy Nino. Their physical and vocal likeness reinforces Hamilton's Cain/Abel allegory. In this Eden, the Forbidden Fruit is the secret of the atom, guarded balefully not by God but Gary Lunn's world-weary J. Robert Oppenheimer. Atmospherically visualized by Amanda Kraft,
Armageddon is a haunting Festival highlight.
So is
Home Free!, Lanford Wilson's drama of incestuous siblings (near-lookalikes Shane Cullum and Rosalie Miletich-Ellis) living in a fantasy world. Director Gus Langley inspires intense concentration and both actors surpass themselves with unnervingly in-character portrayals. As the agoraphobic brother, Cullum finds both humor and pathos within the role's childish psychoses. Equally unaffected in her delusional behavior, Miletich-Ellis's quicksilver mood changes keep one off-balance, further intensifying the harrowing buildup to
Home Free!'s foreordained tragic outcome.
If
Home Free! was pure triumph, Arthur Kopit's
Sing to Me through Open Windows triumphs over obstacles that would defeat any lesser protagonist than Breon Jenay. As Mr. Judd, an elderly magician of failing ability, Jenay must get viewers past obvious old-age makeup, an unmasculine voice and a Rip Taylor wig that deserves co-protagonist billing.
But the creaky body language, slipping mind and Master Thespian hauteur ... all these Jenay nails, conjuring tremendous pathos. No small credit goes to the exquisite lighting, set and direction of Shawn Hackler and Cynthia Vodovoz, and to the creepy interventions of Judd's clown sidekick, Loveless (Dave Surratt). Had
Sing to Me been in the main stage, not the Fischer Black Box, its visual foibles could be minimized, but so would its twilight intimacy.
Definitely needing more
lebensraum was Erica Griffin's staging of her own
Casa de Nada, a slice of homeless life that feels uncomfortably like contemporary Vegas. It's big in style (busting through the fourth wall effortlessly) and ambition: a hilarious requiem for the American spirit. In Griffin's house, freedom really does mean having nothing left to lose, as exemplified by a motley quintet of squatters (including one impostor).
Had it maintained the effrontery and sure pace of its first 40 minutes,
Casa would be the Festival's capstone. But it's basically a first act followed by a bum's-rush conclusion, as though Griffin checked her watch and thought, "I gotta wrap this!" Amid a convincingly scabrous cast (including Anne Mulford as a Mexican of indeterminate gender) only Tyler Collinsworth's matinee-idol-stiff Solitaire is unpersuasive. Joe Hammond compensates for a towel-obscured face with ursine growls ("You Mmmmmexitard!)" and Sue McNulty's deadpan outrageousness is predestined for Ruby Slipper, who believe Jesus lives in her ... no, I can't spoil the surprise.
Going from qualified success to meritorious failures, we find Caroline and James Moran's
The Wind in the Willows. Drew Yonemori's meek, lovable Moley, the Falstaffian exuberance of Samuel Craner's Toady and a clutch of inspired sight gags are almost enough to airlift the slapdash, unready production.
Conversely, Bruce Kane's
Ruby of Elsinore founders on disastrous miscasting of dreary Anthony Avery in the title role. Valiant efforts by April Sauline's adorably spunky, tutu-wearing Ophelia, Ryan Balint's Goth-slacker Hamlet, John Imro's orotund Ghost, plus the swaggering lechery of John Ivanoff's scene-stealing Claudius go virtually for naught.
Perhaps the first play to include recipes in its program,
My Best Dish was a collaborative effort by director Douglas Hill and four members of the UNLV Senior Adult Theatre Program. A comedic soufflé that rose impeccably, it's a quartet for voices, seasoned with stylized movement, song and dance. Cooking tips, life stories and genteel bitchery are intermixed, performed with infectious relish. As a stylish Southern belle, Gail Romero revels in her escape from Grandma Ghetto and co-star Sandy Runkle makes microwave-preparation directions sound more carnal than
Lady Chatterly's Lover.
If
My Best Dish was unreservedly lovable, Charles E. Drew and Lalanya Abner's phantasmagoric
Local Celebrity inspires strong -- albeit detached -- admiration. A Brechtian media circus unfolding in the mind of a P.O.W. (Kasey Bean) in Iraq, it depicts the paparazzi, wannabes, has-beens and starfuckers who orbit the mostly unseen, sexually ambiguous rapper Drone (Lonnie Loven). Contemporary pop culture gets harsh scrutiny from writer-director Abner and her large, capable cast, played out in a series of monologues. Its Americans wallow in narcissism while nameless soldiers die overseas. Mike Thrower, as a self-important day player, deserves special mention and so does the exceptionally engaging TyWayne Wheatt as the photographer dogging Drone's entourage. As the ringmistress, Mizz Jazz, Delyce Collins commands the stage throughout with cool and sinister poise.
Beneath its grotesquery -- and the spectacularly colorful and scintillating costumes of Jen Henry --
Local Celebrity never loses its underlying compassion. The anti-
Blue Hour, it's a work in progress that feels remarkably complete. For such discoveries was Fringe Festival invented.
2011 Fringe Festival Thursday-Sunday, June 9-12, times vary; Las Vegas Little Theatre, 3920 Schiff Drive, 362-7996 or www.lvlt.org, $12 per production
The picture to the left represents one of the more esoteric themes a person may encounter while watching Casa de Nada. It’s a picture of the Willendorf Venus, which was carved by our ancestors about 25,000 years ago. She represents perhaps one of the first extra-dimensional beings the human race encountered while intoxicated on the powerfully hallucinogenic Amanita muscaria mushroom (one of which visually dominates the Casa de Nada stage while posing as a piece of furniture). The seven bands of wavy lines which veil her face are indeed reminiscent of a psychedelically-induced vision. Did our 
ancestors actually perceive Mother Nature Herself while under the effects of this drug? What sort of ceremonies did they perform while indulging in the communion? Were our ancestors blessed, as the audiences of Casa de Nada are blessed, with the vision of Ruby Slipper, the perpetually menstruating Venus of Willendorf, squatting on the face of a fallen man while offering to resuscitate him with the power of her bleeding Jesus/Vagina? It’s hard to form an answer to this heavily loaded question because by now we’ve practically reached the end of Casa de Nada.
where it should begin. By the time we’re finished getting to know the marginally compelling characters Erica Griffin and her able cast have created, there’s no momentum left to knock any fruit off the tree. Although she’s able to shroud this short psychodrama with some interesting ambience, it seems to have navigational problems once it hits the high sea. With more thoughtful meditation on the themes to which she’s naturally drawn, I believe the playwright’s good instincts will eventually lead her through this wild forest of ideas.
where it should begin. By the time we’re finished getting to know the marginally compelling characters Erica Griffin and her able cast have created, there’s no momentum left to knock any fruit off the tree. Although she’s able to shroud this short psychodrama with some interesting ambience, it seems to have navigational problems once it hits the high sea. With more thoughtful meditation on the themes to which she’s naturally drawn, I believe the playwright’s good instincts will eventually lead her through this wild forest of ideas.
