This is Peter Pan set in a dystopian futureland, the music acting as a remnant of a memory of a time when feeling was more possible, when childhood was more innocent; before we found ourselves up against a neon wall, staring out at the void, attempting to determine if we’ve (finally, like Peter did when he flew back one night only to find the window closed against him) reached a point of no return.
How do you deconstruct a deconstruction?
One woman’s refusal to participate in the social straightjackets necessitates another’s sacrifice; the hollower’s women are negatively bound to each other in a zero sum game.
Though their insular world went weird, and quickly, I was there, because they were there. Davis and Markey have the attunement to one another that only comes from a sustained exposure to the other’s way of standing, talking, moving, being-in-the-world.
The history in the text (of lobotomies, of white-male explorers, of colonization) becomes compressed: events, accidents, happenstance, and mistakes, become “like layers of snow into a glacier.”
When I hear that two pieces have been “smashed together,” I make certain assumptions. If I read “conceived by” or “created by the ensemble,” I expect a piece so thoroughly picked apart and put back together, it barely recognizes the original source material. At the
Her quizzers and yelps, the need of her sound, the holes in her anger revealed through the unsteady rocking of her delivery, created the tapestry that was her performance.
Suggestions of timeless spaces, Miss-Julie-ish rage, and as I knew from the program, taking up issues of sexual violence.
There is a dizzying effect to the realization / acknowledgement of one’s cringe-worthy actions as white person to date, and Aloha Aloha gives that kaleidoscopic wheel quite the healthy spin.
The act of appropriation at the core of the theatrical encounter becomes, in Sy’s hands, a metaphor for and means of exploring other appropriative encounters and the difficult entanglement, in each, of empathy and violence.
The anxiety vortex of What Makes Us Feel Good shoots one into the black hole of anxiousness.
Wilson says to the container, “Well fuck you,” then to us, “Get ready to run if this explodes, I guess.”