By Josh Edelson
By Chris Hall
By Jonathan Curiel
By Jonathan Curiel
By Sherilyn Connelly
By Mollie McWilliams
By Rachel Swan
By Erin Browner
Hits and Myths
Polaroid Stories. By Naomi Iizuka. Directed by Delia MacDougall. Starring Margo Hall, Luis Saguar, Robert Hampton, Sean San Jose, and Andrea Thome. Presented by Campo Santo at Intersection for the Arts, 446 Valencia (at 16th Street), through Aug. 2. Call 626-2787.
Local critics have been falling all over each other to praise Polaroid Stories, the play about street kids that melds Jim Goldberg's photo essay Raised by Wolves with Ovid's Metamorphoses. The reason for this, apparently, is that it's a play about street kids. The set is a burnt-out urban landscape with a dumpster, a chain-link fence, and a round hole that might be the end of a sewer pipe. Somehow it manages to evoke a back alley in both the United States and ancient Rome; but the set promises more than the show can deliver. The script links modern street characters with classical counterparts -- a kind of West Side Story with Greek and Roman roots -- and the result is pure compromise. A blond girl trying to talk street-tough calls herself "Disappear," and soon we learn, through a few ham-fisted and functional lines, that she's supposed to be Eurydice, the wife of Orpheus who faded into hell. A lithe gay man played electrically by Robert Hampton puts on a heavy street attitude and keeps telling his speed-freak protege, "I ain't fucked up, I'm a god," but not even his attitude can get him out from under that line without tendentiousness, because the only reason he calls himself a "god," apparently, is to let us recognize that he's a lot like Dionysus.
There are subtler ways to do this. Playwright Naomi Iizuka proves it with a few of her better story lines. Narcissus is a vain hustler played by Sean San Jose who talks to his waifish, tag-along admirer about all the men he's been with. "And I'm so high, this chump's givin' me head, and I'm like yeah," he says. "Yeah," she says. She is, of course, Echo. Iizuka chooses lines for her to repeat with the idea of building up sexual tension, and it works, partly because Andrea Thome is so good at being lust-sodden and shy. San Jose is a great blustery hustler, too, and his character develops into a desperate kid who criticizes Echo for not wanting enough, for just getting along. Here Iizuka has shaped real people with traits that are enhanced by the throwback to myth, rather than squashed by it.
Luis Saguar and Margo Hall also give fiery performances as a pimp and his prostitute: They have a languidly explosive relationship that resolves into something like Zeus' relationship with the women he raped, or Hades' with Persephone. (The program gives both correspondences.) In fact Campo Santo is a strong company, and all that holds back most of the acting is the script, which doesn't spend nearly enough time bringing its characters to believable life. Writing close to classical stories has a long and noble lineage -- Joyce, Mann, Williams, Walcott -- but it takes a lightness of touch that Iizuka hasn't quite mastered.
Four on the Floor
"Night Shtick." Directed by Charlie Varon. Starring Carla Smith-Zilber, Fred Wickham, Kurt Bodden, and Mike Duvall. At the Marsh, 1062 Valencia (at 22nd Street), through Aug. 22. Call 826-5750.
Charlie Varon is a well-acknowledged local master of solo performance whose reputation rests on his talent for blasting through the usual problems in solo pieces of a) talking about yourself all the time, b) irrelevance, and c) assuming that you have and deserve the audience's attention simply because you're onstage. Last year's Ralph Nader Is Missing! had a gallery of characters that Varon played with brilliant satirical energy; it set a standard, at least for me, of good, pointed solo work. Varon also teaches a workshop, and four of his students are currently putting on short pieces of their own at the Marsh, in a blandly titled show called "Night Shtick."
Carla Smith-Zilber starts with a work that seems to be more or less about herself called License to Drive, about learning to drive as a young mother and the memories this brings up of her own strange mother behind the wheel. There is nothing wrong, on its own, with talking about your life onstage; you just have to be aware that not everything that happens to you is interesting. Smith-Zilber creates some excellent characters -- an ex-cop driving instructor in New York City; a Jamaican cabbie; her blithe and overbearing mother -- and she's funny. But her narrating is flat, sometimes unoriginal, and the quest for a license doesn't resolve into anything more universal than one adult woman's quest for a driver's license.
In Whitey Small Loves You, Fred Wickham has invented an infomercial by Small, a poker-faced man in combat fatigues. He runs the Whitey Small House of Democracy, a clearinghouse that peddles products like the Democracy Detention Center Advertising Booth -- a JC Decaux-style billboard booth with room for locking up protesters -- and Microsoft's "Oval Office," a software suite that insists on working out international moneymaking deals. ("If there's more than a million dollars at stake," the program won't let you shut down your computer.) Wickham has an impish, low-key style that can be very funny, but he needs a tighter rein on his material. The show rambles, making it feel a bit too much like a real infomercial.
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