Notes from My Playcation at the Fringe, Part 3

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                                       Yeast Nation, at the Ellen Stewart Theatre La MaMa ETC., with book and lyrics by Greg Kotis, music and lyrics by Mark Hollman and directed by Greg Kotis, has a whole lotta good to be said for it. Yeast Nation, the immediately sold-out Fringe hit of 2011, by the creators of Urinetown, to start with has production values which easily whiz past anything else to be had at the festival. Then there's the finely-tuned direction of Greg Kotis, and the mostly fine tunes by Mark Hollman and William Wade's delicious musical direction. So I've said it. No one who was lucky enough to get a ticket was cheated.

But... I did have a lot of problems with the book and lyrics by Mr. Kotis.

In case you haven't read or seen already, the plot revolves around or should I say evolves around a whole cloth re-imagining of the origin of all earth's species. It seems we all come from yeast. A population of anthropomorphosized yeasts all named Jan something-or-other, and all saddled with the usual raft of tragic human flaws -- you know, hubris, greed, jealousy, etc., who live by a set of ludricrous "strictures." Okay, this is scientifically preposterous -- but I am sure that's the point. To point out the ludicrousness of say, the creationists who have us gamboling about with the T-Rexes though our time on earth was separated by several millennia; and of course the silly literal interpretation of Genesis, the whole Adam and Eve thing, man and woman from dirt and extra rib (which always makes me queasy in Chinese restaurants).

So I won't carp too much about the yeast thing. Though it does make me wonder how many beers the boys may have knocked back when they came up with the idea. Hmmm? Beer good - - can't have beer without yeast -- aha! Yeast, the origin of all life. Ha, ha, ha. We'll put the yeast in the ocean and have them feast on salt, even though every kid who's made it to fifth grade knows yeast feed on sugar, not salt. But this is fermented, farcical musical satire. So must be taken with more than a grain of salt, ha, ha, ha. No problem; we'll dress the yeasts in classical Greek-ish/Roman-ish garb. By time we're running six months on Broadway, there will be toga party Yeast Nation theme nights on campuses all over this nation. Yeast/beer/toga parties, a logical progression, ha, ha, ha.

But here's what I did find exceedingly annoying. The artists created their own universe, I love that; but then they continually violated their own construct, i.e.: we're informed we're dealing with one-celled organisms led by Jan The Elder, the first living, I suppose sentient organism, who imposes a bunch of strictures to "protect" the species. Fine. Then within five minutes from the opening number, God is mentioned in passing, a complicated idea that is given no earned place in the script. Similarly, we are told yeast increase their numbers by eating too much and bursting forth another full-grown yeast. Fine. But lust and jealousy are soon motivating the thrust of the plot. Again, fine -- if we witness emergence and evolution, not so much scientifically, but dramatically, not just to service the plot and make the lyrics of some song sort of work. I'm not being picky, really I'm not. Love, hate, even the concept of date where they never existed before, could be so much more interesting if they crept up on the characters. Merely slowing down a word i.e. "daaaaaate" to indicate confusion -- does not cut it. And having a clever kid march around with an anachronistic textbook that he got from -- where? To cover your asses doesn't make it either.

But, just when my attention was truly lagging, comes the depth and intelligent humor that the post-intermission plot bestows upon us. The most basic nature of our low beginnings. The need to feed. The scarcity of food. Hence the need to feed upon each other. Hoarding and greed (earned concepts in the script). "Good" a virtue thrown out into the mix and as quickly discarded when the only imperative is survival. Yes! This makes sense, and gives us a sense of the blood thirst that is vestigial -- refuses to atrophy unto today. The carnage is hilariously staged -- and works. Then the few yeast remaining learn to merge not for sex, or out of love alone, but again for survival to become multi-celled, to defeat the new organism on the block. Self-preservation as a reason to become one. Strong stuff.

Go back to the drawing board, Mr. Kotis, make the yeast of the first half, rise to meet the artistic yeast of the second.

Standout yeasts for me included, Harriet Harris, as Jan the Unnamed, the Tiresias-esque seer hobbling about with amazing alacrity on her twisted cane/divining stick, spitting out lines with a knowledgeable rasp that could strike a nerve and your funny bone with equal accuracy. Joy Suprano as Jan the Sly, the infectious yeast in the mix, was pretty poison as she spun her petty plots, and lent her impressive voice and style to her booty-bumping numbers. Erik Altemus and Emily Tarpey as the young yeast lovers were suitably adorable and both rose admirably to the occasion when they were given the chance to grow, as realization upon realization was heaped upon their characters in Act II; lovely nuanced performances beautifully voiced.

If they can knead out the lumps in the writing in the first half and the get the bread together, Yeast Nation will rise again. Did I just say that? I fear I did.

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Victor and Victoria’s Terrifying Tale of Terrific Things, written and performed by Nathan Cuckow and Beth Graham and directed by Kevin Sutley is a delicious poison cake of a play. A perfect admixture of terror and titters. Halloween was made for plays like this. It is perfectly written and acted by Nathan Cuckow and Beth Graham. How best to describe Beth Graham’s manic macabreness? If Dame Judith Anderson swallowed Imogene Coca – well you get the picture. And Nathan Cuckow – Harvey Korman with his screws loosened in a Buster Brown hairdo.

Director Kevin Sutley directs perfectly. The timing impeccable, the scares and the laughs intertwined as to become inseparable; and the use of bedsheets, book and a lantern as innumerable set and prop devices, ingenious. The sound design adds immeasurably to the horror motif, and mise-en-scène. Terry Fairfield’s work here is perfectly brilliant.

By all means see this show whenever it plays again – and it will, bring the kids (though this is no kiddie show) but be prepared for an enormous electric bill – it will be months before they’ll sleep with the lights out again.

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The Three Times She Knocked, written by A.D. Penedo and directed by Christopher Windom, is a dandy, randy, funny, insidious, mind-pricking jewel of a two-hander. The language of the play harkens back to a time when a honeyed tongue, a deft turn of phrase, and a smart sense of the lyric, colored wit to great effect. And yet it's utterly of the moment, modern.

The play's chief asset is that it keeps its audience completely off-balance. Are we watching the exploits of a silky-smooth operator, an office Casanova, with the world's best, albeit unusual line? Or are we observing a man in the throes of romantic, overwhelming love, the likes of which has not been seen since knighthood was in flower? Or is something else entirely going on?

Director Christopher Windom used every inch of the tiny Manhattan Theatre Source space to amazing effect; producing a fly-on-the-wall intimacy with the audience -- but never letting the play seem cramped. Mr. Windom was in complete command of the excellent material.

Isabel Richardson as Tara the object of desire, fills the bill beautifully in every sense of the word. Her sexuality is suffused with a charismatic intelligence. She plays arched eyebrow in credulity, and confused surrender, with equal aplomb. Bob D'haene, as Eric, an extraordinarily ordinary looking man whose mind is an intricate as a fine Swiss watch, and as treacherous to navigate as a winding mountain road in a rainstorm at night, glitters with glib dangerousness. D'haene delivers a knock-your-socks-off performance.

I shan't spoil the play's surprises for you, but suffice it to say that I came away from The Three Times She Knocked, with the feeling that unconditional love is only safely sought from your doggie, and obsession should be confined to a perfume bottle. Catch this uncanny play if you can.

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I will confine my comments about Scott Decker's Felony Friday (directed by Rebecca Yarsin) to a merciful few. It's just plain awful. Not even worth straining the brain to create a witty pan.

Since the play is sold out, my warning comes too late. May I suggest giving your tickets to a playwriting student so he or she can view it as an exerise in how not to write a play. This thing is 60 plots in search of a play. 'Tis a pity since Mr. Decker's performance as Jack is multi-layered and titillatingly-tinged with a sexy fear-inducing excitement. All the other actors acquit themselves more than well.

This morass has its moments but come on do you really want to pick through the garbage for a few bits of digestible food?

The two-plus tortuous hours, felt like ten -- it was Felony Friday, Saturday, Sunday..., a felony indeed. Tear up your tickets and send me a thank-you note for enduring this one for you. Time is a terrible thing to waste.