THE HURRY WITH THE FRINGE ON TOP More Reviews as Theatre Festival Ends, Mostly

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Hurry, hurry, hurry!  Sunday, August 29, is when The New York International Fringe Festival and most of its 197—count ’em—197!—shows pack up their props and scenery (if they had any) and dreams (they all have some big ones or they wouldn’t be here) and regroup and/or recoup.  A select few, well-received shows will be part of the Fringe Encore Series and get more performances. Others, I am semi-sure will return soon or someday, being picked up by producers as they are or re-cast or cast in a different light (I don’t mean spots and gels necessarily). 

Here are some reviews of shows I saw as things were winding down: one about a puppetmaster controlling his female marionettes who revolt, and one about how technology is controlling/replacing our face-to-face  interactions.

Le Rêve des Marionettes at LaMama’s Ellen Stewart Theatre on East Fourth Street, is a revenge tale with songs that are sometimes as limp as the limb-dangling, lifeless lady marionettes when they are at rest.  The rest doesn’t add up to much beyond some diverting dancing and strutting by a hard-working but uneven company and impressive costuming by James Hamby creating a period Parisian girlie show with attitude.  A few moments spark interest and many more have potential, but the fussing and feminist fuming and parading and prancing are often tedious, full of false rhymes and false hope.  As they return to their “show,” there are diminishing returns.  The women wear much black and red and these good sports sport bustiers, but it’s the other aspects of the show that need a boost.  There’s way more cleavage than cleverness and the singing voices are often below par in oomph and color.  If those tight-tight costumes are preventing the women from breathing fully from their diaphragms, maybe unstringing the corsets a bit as the marionette strings are cut might be considered.  In French, “le rêve” means “the dream,” and if we suspend our disbelief and play along that marionettes can have thoughts and feelings about having their strings pulled by a leering, drooling, sexist male pig taskmaster of a puppetmaster, we can go along that their rêve would be revolution.  So, they shoot the bearded, top-hat-wearing letch of a boss/creator.  That might be justified for the creepiness and pure annoyance of the awkward acting, croaking talk-singing of the first number and annoying the audience with commands to applaud. But they drag his dead body around, working him into musical numbers as he magically comes back to life enough to react, pop his eyes, do some shtick and be their prop.  Ugh.  The show must go on!!!  But, as someone once asked, “WHY?”

They go through their routines in their supposedly newly-liberated way now that they are not at the mercy of the guy who pulled the strings and made them his sexist sexual fantasy.  Though we only see one number – with a woman in a cage: it’s a metaphor, folks – before and after, the “old way” has to be imagined.  Or better not to?  Hmmm.  The women-chosen ways of presenting their show still seem like vamping, lusty, sex object/brain dead presentations of flirtatious, bodies-on-display women. There is one great costume moment with a huge feathered head dress and a classy black dress and a big white feather boa makes an appearance elsewhere.  The motley drew of marionettes presents all shapes and sizes and types to shimmy and kick their legs and kick up a fuss.  Like the word marionette and the fishnet stockings and sleeves, each one’s name ends with the syllable ‘ette: say bonjour to Babette, Annette, Galette, Colette, Cosette, Georgette, Jeanette, Lisette, Mother Claudette, Miette and the more amusingly named Dinette, Brickette and Hairnette.  That’s 13 if you’re counting.  And, by the way, the intense Hairnette is the one gal played by a man in full drag; it’s John Vincent, also the choreographer, creating some dances that suit the piece nicely, especially when they add energy or capitalize on the unique movements of string-pulled marionettes and their sharp-elbowed tension and release.  Others on the production team of this show hailing from Louisiana do double duty or more, too, with Johanna Divine in the fine band as guitarist and musical director and she’s co-writer of both music and words.  Her co-writer on the words is Christy Leichty, who is also the main director and plays Colette.  Co-composer is Daniel Coolik and Steven Cooper is co-director.  Clearly, a lot of work went into this and at times it’s a well-meaning, well-oiled machine that works in fits and starts and more hissy fits. Wake me up, please.  And when I want a marionette with more net worth, I’ll stick with Pinocchio.

I Don <3 u N E Mor is computer instant message shortcut for “I don’t love you any more.” Or, if you prefer, “I don’t HEART you…” This musical is another kind of battle—those happily computer-and-cell-phone-addicted to those resisting that particular revolution.  A timely look at how texting and Facebook walls can put walls between us and de-humanize natural social interactions, especially with people we can easily see in person.  Ah, technology: a marvelous convenience or have we created a monster that makes us colder, callous and creepy?  The musical is at the Lucille Lortel Theatre ---  text a friend for tix or send the producers an instant message or e-mail or see the websites fringenyc.org or idonheartyouthemusical.com or start a Facebook page and discuss it on your hand-held computer I-phone E-mailing blackberry blahblahblah with the person sitting a row behind you in the audience.  There is some fun and surprising sweetness in this musical, kind of a broad and occasionally suddenly realistically-scaled cautionary tale.  Unfortunately, it bogs down and overplays its hand, getting redundant with a series of songs that alternately praise the wonders of techno-communicating or attack the troubling trend.  Hard to buck a tidal wave that’s arrived, but this self-aware jumble has a little fun trying.  Many numbers feature the ensemble holding, like precious jewels, their do-everything devices and the opening rant is “interrupted” by phones going off on stage and a performer taking the call to say she’s sorry she can’t talk but she’s in a show right now and then others start a cacaphony of conversations with beeps and ring tones and a technological Tower of Babel. Our hero is Ron, nicely and neatly played with nerdy neediness and repressed feelings as the endangered species of a kind, old-fashioned shy guy with a genuine heart.  The clumsy big galoot refuses to have a cell phone, content to have the fate that the others bemoan: being “Out of Touch,” as the song soon goes on about.  He works as an archivist, creating paper copies and files for, yes, a techno-mad company, alongside his female co-worker down-to-earth and likewise modest, untrendy, unfrenzied Sam.  Elise Link plays her in an understated, naturalistic way that is both a respite from and clash with the cartoon style by the ensemble, and Joshua Doss as the self-pleased powerful boss (“Merry Christmas, you’re fired”) who sees himself, he sings, as a “Benevolent Man.”