If you’re a bit of a fanatic about something – food, wine, soccer, art – chances are you’ve been known to travel to get more of the very best of whatever it is you like.
Good stuff is worth traveling for. Not that you can’t get good stuff at home. But sometimes there’s something about going to experience a really, really good item in its native habitat – if and when it exists.
So here’s another ping to remind you that if you like theatre, one of the most exciting shows I’ve seen in a long while ANYWHERE is on right now at an undisclosed warehouse in Seattle’s SoDo (“south of downtown”) neighborhood. And that’s #DumpSite by Julia Nardin at Seattle Immersive Theatre.
The good news: It’s the kind of dramatic live experience that will put the hair back on your chest and a skip in your stride. Have you been dining at Olive Garden for your theatrical fare lately? Then eating from this rich local menu may come as a bit of a shock to the system. Yes, the theatre can still be this good. So good that 20 somethings are shelling out $35 a night to go.
The bad news? It’s almost sold out.
Word (as word is wont to do when there’s something good going on) has spread. And shows are selling out. Only 20 audience members a night get the chance to enter the world of Reed Pickering and his sister Charlotte.
Admittedly, I’m a bit of a fanatic, and have now made the trip north to see #DumpSite twice. It is definitely worth the trek. But you could also bundle in numerous other shows to make for a longer stay in the Jet City if a theatre kamikaze strike for a single show seems extravagant.
Need to shake up the system? Looking for something new and exciting?
As they are wont to do, the guys over at 5 Useless Degrees have been exploring the seamy, dank, always interesting underside of the theatre world. And this time their probing and prodding has led to one of the more interesting stories in the Northwest theatre this year.
You may recall back in March a story by Brendan Kiley in The Stranger about the new play SEVEN WAYS TO GET THERE by Bryan Willis and Dwayne Clark at Seattle’s ACT Theatre. Read that article for the backstory.
In a nutshell, businessman Dwayne Clark approached Willis about writing a play partially based on Clark’s life and experience in group therapy. They did it, Clark bankrolled the entire operation, and the play went up at ACT and sounds to have been pretty darn successful, both financially and critically.
And then, of course, the theatuh peanut gallery, which so often sounds like a mob of emaciated crows fighting over a roadkilled mouse, went into overdrive weeping and wailing how unfair it was that only rich playwrights get produced, and how wrong it was for Clark to use financial influence to get his play done.
There are many, many threads you could draw out in this saga, but probably the most relevant one is Clark’s observation on how broken the regional theatre is financially:
“Why do you do this? How do you stay in business? This seems like a broken economic model.”
Decent if unremarkable version of play that may now be more interesting as historical document than living drama. Some accent problems for Maggie. Brick is not all that attractive. The night belongs to John Aylward’s raw and rowdy Big Daddy. ACT’s Allen Theatre is a challenging space to make magical.
Superb ensemble charges even the quietest moments with untold drama and discovery in this closeup portrait of nowheresville USA, circa the Dust Bowl. Five high school women and their love for basketball fill the days and provide backdrop for growing up and facing tough road. Uncontainable physicality. Charming and true.
The location is a secret (it’s somewhere in Seattle’s SoDo), the story is murky, and you will be wearing a mask. A mask that looks like a bird’s beak.
There’s a washed up horror writer, his sister, their recently deceased father, a missing teen (or six), boxes full of… something, and the drip drip dripping, moss-covered woods of the Pacific Northwest.
And that’s about all you’re going to know before you embark on the latest interactive experience from Seattle Immersive Theatre. The company’s DUMP SITE by Julia Nardin opened last night in an undisclosed Seattle warehouse.
Forget TWIN PEAKS 2. Get your PNW gothic needs met right here.
We could tell you more, but then we’d have to kill you. And given that numerous people have already been killed, what with opening the show and all, there just isn’t enough time right now to bury any more bodies.
It doesn’t take all that much to get on Irish Times theatre critic Fintan O’Toole’s shit list. But to rise to the remote and windy top of that list is no small achievement. For O’Toole has been reviewing Irish theatre at home and abroad for decades. And many, many shows meet with – well, start reading him and you’ll see.
The list of pans and slams is long, so you’d think that singling out an all time worst from the list of candidates would be challenging for O’Toole. Apparently not. While some Irish fans may feel slighted that this elite honor goes out of country, no doubt most will be delighted to hear an American is wearing the laurels.
Despite the odds, John Patrick Shanley has brought home gold with his “Irish play” OUTSIDE MULLINGAR, now on at Seattle Rep. In O’Toole’s annual recap of Irish cultural highs and lows for 2014, he named Shanley’s play as including “perhaps the worst single line I’ve heard in the theater.” We won’t spoil the drama. You’ll have to go and find out which line it was. Though it won’t initially be easy to pick out just one.
It’s amazing what a Tony nomination and a famous playwright’s name can do. This nonsensical story, projected onto a culture that is apparently as foreign to Shanley as Timbuktu, is now making the rounds of mediocre American regional theater. And nothing draws an unthinking stateside smile faster than a bad Irish accent on stage. No matter how far from reality the representation of Ireland may be, as long as someone drinks a beer, makes a joke about the rain, and says “shite”, all is well. When this sort of slapstick gets really, really bad it’s pure greenface.
Culture Shock: ‘Outside Mullingar’, and beyond the edge of awfulness
All the hokum that had been happily discarded became, in Martin McDonagh’s hands, a workable proposition again. It didn’t occur to me that an intelligent American dramatist such as John Patrick Shanley might look at those plays and miss all the layers of mockery and irony and manipulation.
Feb 22, 2014
When plays are bad, their badness is usually easy to explain. Occasionally, though, there is a play whose woefulness demands a whole new theory. John Patrick Shanley’s faux-Irish drama Outside Mullingar , currently on Broadway, is mystifyingly awful. The obvious explanation, that Shanley can’t write, doesn’t get us very far. He won the Tony Award and the Pulitzer Prize for Doubt , and an Oscar for Moonstruck . Neither is especially to my taste, but they are at worst highly competent and professional. They don’t prepare you for the moments in Outside Mullingar when you find yourself shaking your head in abject, surrendered, uncomprehending disbelief.
After much reflection, my theory about Outside Mullingar is what we might call the McDonagh Effect. Martin McDonagh took the ramshackle old Irish naturalistic play, with its odd mix of kitchen comedy and 19th-century melodrama, and made it look both easy and viable. All the old hokum that had been happily discarded became, in his hands, a workable proposition again. If you were Irish, of course, it was also obvious that his was a postmodern version of Irish hokum, utterly self-aware, drenched in irony, deliberately anachronistic and brilliantly deployed to manipulate an audience’s expectations.
It didn’t occur to me, at least, that an intelligent American dramatist might look at those McDonagh plays and miss all the layers of mockery and irony and manipulation. That it would be possible to think, Great, the Abbey play of the 1940s is up for grabs again – and to think this in all innocence, with no hint of malicious intent. The only way I can explain Outside Mullingar is to assume that poor Shanley was misled in this way. Even this doesn’t explain why nobody, especially the Irish people involved in the production, had a quiet word to put him right.
Outside Mullingar is set, well, outside Mullingar. The time is given in the programme as “recently”: we know this because there are references to Irish boxers winning medals at the Olympics. As the old farmer Tony Reilly (played by Peter Maloney) puts it, in a line that is all too typical, “Sure, we’re good with our fists, no surprise there.” But theatrically, it is set in a different time and place: the Abbey, some time between 1930 and 1959.
If you were to do a random cut-up of the rural social comedies that were the staple diet of that period, you would more than likely end up with most of the following elements: a funeral, cups of tea, a dispute about land, a dying parent, a will, a returned Yank, an ageing virgin son and the headstrong woman he is secretly in love with but has never got around to informing of his feelings. If you shuffled those cards a few times, you’d come up with the bones of Outside Mullingar . To complete the job, you’d have to have mistaken McDonagh’s dark surrealism for Oirish quirkiness and added enough of that to tip the whole thing from mere dullness into embarrassment.
In Outside Mullingar , we begin in Tony’s kitchen after the funeral of his nearest neighbour. We quickly establish three things. Tony is thinking of cutting his son, Anthony (played by Brían F O’Byrne), out of his will and leaving the farm to a Yankee nephew. The Reillys have been in dispute with the neighbour about a right of way. (The term “land-grabbing” is, I’m afraid, inevitable.) And the disputed land has passed to the neighbour’s daughter, the fiery Rosemary Muldoon (played by Debra Messing – Grace from Will & Grace ).
I would normally be careful about revealing how it all works out, but in this case it will hardly surprise readers that the resolution will involve two elements: (a) a deathbed scene of more than usually revolting sentimentality in which Tony makes it all right with Anthony; and (b) Anthony and Rosemary finally getting around to wearing the face off each other.
All of this would be weird in itself, especially as the pastiche of midcentury Irish drama is always slightly off-kilter. Shanley’s ear for Irish speech – he has cousins outside Mullingar – is not well enough tuned to avoid having people “go to church” or “pass on”. Messing’s Rosemary tries so hard at an Irish accent that her voice ends up drowning in the Atlantic. It doesn’t help that her mother is played by Dearbhla Molloy, whose precise characterisation makes you wonder where her daughter came from.
But what makes the whole thing almost unfathomably bad is that Shanley has some vague sense that McDonagh’s plays do something more. Hence we have rain falling outside the cottage window as in the Druid production of The Beauty Queen of Leenane and the casting of O’Byrne from that same production. Rosemary has elements of Slippy Helen from The Cripple of Inishmaan , and her resentment of Anthony goes back to a McDonaghesque childish slight. Worst of all, Anthony’s big revelation is an unintended parody of the way McDonagh inserts oddities and nonsequiturs. He explains that he has stayed away from Rosemary all these years because “I think I’m a bee”. This is not a joke or a metaphor: he thinks he’s a bee. I tried to convince myself that I was an ice-cube so I could melt into the ground in embarrassment.
Rebecca Gilman’s LUNA GALE, which received a rave review from the Los Angeles Times’s hard-to-please @charlesmcnulty in December at its world premiere Kirk Douglas Theatre production, is a clear season highlight.
Also of note are DISGRACED by Ayad Akhtar and CONSTELLATIONS by Nick Payne.
Seattle native Kimber Lee’s BROWNSVILLE SONG (B-SIDE FOR TRAY), a somewhat cliched and predictable story about young lives in the ghetto cut short etc. that got a run at Lincoln Center’s LCT3, is also on the list.