When the Scottish novelist and playwright J.M. Barrie supplied the dialogue “This is queer!” to the pirate character of Smee, who calls it out while being verbally accosted by an unseen Peter Pan in Barrie’s 1904 play, it’s difficult to ascertain whether Barrie was mining its newly emergent duality of meaning (what would eventually come to refer to sexual and gender minorities who are not heterosexual or cisgender) or simply indicating that the action of the moment was “strange” or “not quite right,” more in line with the common usage of the word at that juncture in history. With regards to the current production though, which plays at Bard through July 22nd, the emphasis on that particular utterance (it’s now shouted in unison) amid a heavily-abbreviated script can only be read as fully intentional. (The play has been trimmed down to a ninety-minute run-time, which includes the entirety of the Leonard Bernstein music and songs that provide impetus for this production; Bernstein’s music is being celebrated world-wide this season in recognition of his centenary year.) The re-purposing of the word queer serves to highlight the chasm of space that exists between the original world of the play (1904), the Bernstein musical (from 1950, when the play and music premiered on Broadway for the first time, almost immediately eclipsed by the Mary Martin musical version that would come along four years later), and of this postmodern moment of “now.” That space – absence, even – is made manifest, physicalized, embodied, then turned against itself in Leonard Bernstein’s Peter Pan. Continue reading
MADONNA col BAMBINO is written by Sarah Einspanier, composed by Deepali Gupta, directed and developed by Caitlin Sullivan. Structured like a speculative science fiction mass, the play is trippy, eerily precise, weirdly reverential, profoundly moving and deeply funny. It runs July 18th through July 21st at the New Ohio Ice Factory Festival. (Tickets $20.)
- Can you each describe a bit about your background, where you grew up, and a detail or two about your mother?
Caitlin: My parents still live in Boston, in the house where I grew up. I have never had keys to it. Even though they live in “the city” my parents never lock their door. My mom wants to make sure that at any moment any of her kids can come home, and by that she means me and my three biological siblings and any of the other dozen or so people who have lived with us over the years. So yeah I’m learning about “boundaries.” Continue reading
Tamara Sevunts is a Canadian-Armenian actress, originally from Montreal and now based in NYC. A graduate of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, she is fluent in six languages. Off-Broadway credits include: “Your Alice” (BAM), “Daybreak” (Beckett Theatre), “The Good Girl” (59E59 Theatres) and “Loose Canon” (SoHo Playhouse). Regional credits include: Feste in “Twelfth Night”, Angelo in “Measure for Measure”, Hysterium in “A Funny Thing Happened On The Way to the Forum” amongst others at The Scranton Shakespeare Festival. Film credits include: “You Can’t Go Home Again” (Lincoln Center), “The Real American (Listapad International Film Festival, Atlanta Film Festival, NYTVF…) Coming up, Tamara will be reprising her role as the Cheshire Cat in “Your Alice” at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and premiering a new work by Gordon Penn, in Paris at the Théâtre de l’Opprimé. For updates and a full list of credits, visit www.tamarasevunts.com
Watching Elevator Repair Service’s production of Everyone’s Fine With Virginia Woolf, a play written by Kate Scelsa for the company (which runs at Abrons Arts Center through June 30th) provides an opportunity to contemplate what makes a company’s work quintessentially their own. ERS has carved out its reputation largely by treating non-dramatic texts (such as novels The Great Gatsby, The Sound and the Fury, and Supreme Court oral arguments that provided the text for their show Arguendo, to name just a few) as though they were dramatic; in effect, staging that which was not created with the intent to be staged. Their aesthetic, with its sly humor and presentational style, and the intellectual rigor required from its audience while experiencing an ERS show from this period, was often born out of and then reenforced by creative problem-solving; how will they stage this? Continue reading
Meg Stuart’s Until Our Hearts Stop at NYU Skirball Center, May 4, 2018
Source and direction
There are a few minutes left in Until Our Hearts Stop when Leyla Postalcioglu, Neil Callaghan, and Jared Gradinger slowly somersault backwards in shiny metallic attire. Legs to the sky, the dancers appear suspended in a vacuum on the Skirball Theatre’s stage. In the hours and minutes before, the six dancers and three musicians perform a rigorous, non stop togetherness. They weather all varieties of storms and cause overlapping crescendos of chaos which dwindle into awkward moments, shared laughter, and stage transitions that are highly visible for us to witness. These moments of transparency and revealed infrastructure are strictly intended.
The performance is a cohabitation of environments, states, and struggles of all different stakes and scales. Often the performers yell at their audience, entreat us, offer us clay for touching and whiskey for drinking, and even take some of us out the fire exit to scream indiscriminately at the dark (or, consequently, at NYU students and faculty walking by on West 4th Street.)
Witnessing Until Our Hearts Stop, our perceptions jumble and our curiosities pique. In an explication of Stuart’s work Jeroen Fabius states that “the spectator will need to assess what to address importance to, and where to look to find triggers to understand the source and direction of the movements of the dancer” (1). Scouring for these “triggers” is one of the joys of being an audience member for many live performance works, and Stuart’s piece is full of “freaky insiders” (2) navigating their own set of rules is no exception.
Bodies, with great emphasis
At once blundering and virtuosic, the six dancers scramble up the sides and fronts of each other as if they are one another’s Everest. Once this high-energy spasm of contact improvisation settles, they crawl toward an empty couch on the side of the stage. As they struggle to fit themselves onto the couch comfortably, whatever that means, they are embarrassed at their nakedness (or maybe a little bit proud). They smell one another’s body odor out of insatiable curiosity. Smelling and sitting on top of each other soon devolves into an egalitarian turn-taking in smacking one other’s naked flesh until the skin is red, playfully finding new positions together, and soothing each other as the slaps become more and more painful. They make their audience work to assign meaning as they continue to redirect what we think we know as their slaps and devotional gestures begin to intermingle and coexist. I smell their scents, I feel the sting on their skin. They are bodies who Fabius describes as being “shown to the spectator with great emphasis,” their performance serving as “a challenge to the spectator’s attention and capacity to anticipate what will happen.” (3).
Soon this “challenge” becomes an impossibility: there is no hope for the spectator to try to anticipate what happens next. While the performance does indeed have a “rhythmic chain of events” which underpins its corporeal explorations, these events are in no way plausible or linear (4). This impossibility often comes in the shape of spectacular irreverence, as when Claire Vivianne Sobottke dons a full length evening gown made of hair and runs sporadically in vectors across the stage. At some point she takes a pause, and lets our attention drift away from her. Our attention lands on the rest of the dancers, spreading the palms of all their hands together pinky to thumb to make a geometric shape like a star. They take the star, moving slowly, cautiously, and place it (their flattened, joined hands) on the back wall underneath a spotlight. They appear reverent toward the shape, the methodical placement, the resultant stillness as they stare upwards at what they have done. Just then Sobottke is back, staggering in her heels and running across the stage out of hiding behind a large purple curtain. She thoroughly “ruins” the moment in her irreverence and steps closer toward the microphone, creating a new moment of her own. She speaks into the mic loudly and with haste: “There’s something I have to tell you, I’ve been wanting to tell you, I need you to know!” What she finally says to us is gibberish, a bunch of gargled syllables with no meaning at all. But although (or because) the faculties of reasoning and prediction have been arrested, of course we understand.
A long section of the piece occurs in almost silence, which gives us a refuge from what has been up to now a constant deluge of information, simultaneity, choices, action. In this scene Kristof Van Boven whispers solemnly to us as he improvises a litany, his ankles crossed as he leans against a grand piano, commenting on phenomena ranging from the damaged state of political systems everywhere, to the tragedy of recent (cultural) developments in America, to the privileged but also futile endeavor of attending New York University, where this performance was held, as a student of the arts. The sprawling content and Van Boven’s exposed-at-the-seams delivery exemplify Stuart’s belief that “you can show that things affect you” while in performance (5).
Van Boven performs this bit in cabaret-singer attire, as if seized by existential crisis just moments before breaking into song. Pianist Stefan Rusconi sits faithfully by, holding the space for Van Boven’s theatrical-while-intimate confession, nodding his head and listening without ever playing a note.
Eventually, Maria Scaroni enters wearing a long green evening gown with an eccentric piece of headwear that looks ominously like a gas mask. She sashays slowly toward us, then crouches and begins to rove around the space slowly and in circles. Here Van Boven interrupts his metacommentary on the nature of this performance (someone in the audience had been whistling at him, unprovoked, which informed a large part of the performer’s real-time dismay) to alert us: “Up to now, everything I have told you is true. This is the first time I will tell you a lie. Ladies and gentlemen I present to you Svetlana. This is Svetlana performing her sad duck walk… which she performed earlier this week… outside of her bank in Belarus… as a twenty-four hour protest.” Scaroni continues the dying duck as the musicians begin to amplify their sound, dramatizing her presence in the center of the stage. I see what Stuart identifies as “the internal friction and rubbing [which] creates unexpected relations and by-products” in this rocky progression from whispered metacommentary to farcical performance protest (6). The performers are “bodies host[ing], somewhat uncomfortably, different characters, bodies and attitudes” as they force themselves to carry on. Until?
2. Program notes for Until Our Hearts Stop, May 4, 2018, NYU Skirball.
5. “Dancing States” by Meg Stuart, 2010. (In DANCE, ed. Andre Lepecki.)